


Na Bearna Baoghal

by Anorlost



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: 1690s AU, Alternate Universe, Catholic Character, Catholic Guilt, Hux is sad, Jacobite AU, Kylo is horny, Language Barrier, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings, Porn with some plot, Rimming, because Eight decreed it, period typical disdain for the Irish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:38:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorlost/pseuds/Anorlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on the prowl for someone to warm his bed, Lord Kylo Ren finds a pretty soldier standing in the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love history. Changes are if there are inaccuracies I already know about them and I'm ignoring a few details for the sake of telling a story, but if people want to talk to me about them, feel free. 
> 
> Also, this is my first ever sort of PWP, so...this is a thing now. Just kind of a new style and subject I wanted to tackle. I worked really hard, so I hope you guys like it. This was also written before the 'Armitage' reveal, so Hux's name is different. 
> 
> Also my Irish is abysmal.

It had never been said that Kylo Ren had normal and decent proclivities.

He first spotted the soldier, near Saint Germain en Laye. He had been looking for a change, something to bring excitement to the midwinter dreariness that had set in, and he had most certainly found it. Kylo had been struck by the particularly bright red hair on the soldier’s uncovered head, and not because it was nearly as deep a shade as his uniform jacket. It was curious for a man to go about without a hat, or a wig as was coming into fashion at the time. And yet, there he was, the slight, pretty Irishman, walking alone in the dark, perhaps sober, more likely not. It had been snowing. He had stopped to stand under a lamppost, watching jets of vapour pour from between his pink lips in the chilly December air. He stopped for a long time, listening to a distant choir practicing hymns for a Christmas mass, barely audible from where he stood.

Kylo had had no prior experience with the Irish, but he knew exactly how this particular Irishman in his telltale red jacket with green facings had come to France. That previous summer the French and Irish armies under Louis XIV and James II had lost to that of William III of England on Irish soil. The army, belonging to the deposed King James, had accompanied him to France, where he continued to futilely fight for a crown that would never return to him. It seemed sometimes that everyone but James, and his fervent Jacobite followers, knew that it was a fool’s gambit. However, he and his armies had their uses. The Irish were mad enough to charge headlong into any fray against impossible odds, and could even, sometimes, rip a bloody, mangled victory from the tight jaws of their English and Holy Roman foes. It made them ideal cannon fodder. Expendable, but effective.

Kylo had not mused for any amount of time on the hardships or cares of the Irish. While the positioning of their island and volatile political climate was of strategic importance, few paid the people who lived there any mind. As far as Kylo and most of his class was concerned, they were brutes. Their Commander, Patrick Sarsfield was so daft he charged with his men at the front of the line, and had a less than sterling reputation for personal conduct in his youth. Many of them could not speak French, were not very well educated, and were notoriously rumoured to be closer to drunken apes than human.

The pretty soldier in the snow immediately made him question that, though.

Nobody had ever said that their wild allies could be so beautiful. Red hair was associated with evil and ugliness, but on this man it was very comely. They were said to be gangly, snub-nosed and barbaric. This one was slender, fine-featured and elegant. It was his lips, tinted pink by the frosty winter air that struck Kylo the most. Lovely and full, they practically cried out to be kissed and claimed. Perhaps given enough time and with a little finesse they would.

He had then been struck by his eyes, tired, blue, and world-weary despite his youth. It was then that Kylo really considered the humanity of the Irishman before him. He had been exiled from his homeland and would not be able to return until King James reclaimed his throne. Was he considering his wild homeland now? Was he thinking, with Christmas time approaching, of a family that he had left behind? A mother? A sweetheart? Almost certainly a Catholic, were the hymns a comfort to him? Mass was the same in every land. Was it something bitter-sweet and familiar to him?

Kylo thought him a melancholy figure, and his sorrow and exile made him all the more beautiful. And that beauty was only enhanced by the taboo that the Irish soldier was a man, that he undoubtedly had a lower social standing, which made him to Kylo as exotic as the inhabitants of New France across the sea. He was lovely, he was foreign, he was forbidden, and it all made Kylo determined to have the young man come with him to Versailles to warm his bed.

“Good evening,” Kylo called out in French.

The other man did not jump or start. He glanced over his shoulder, thick white flakes of snow clinging to his fine, fiery tresses and translucent orange lashes. His bright lips were still parted seductively, lewdly Kylo imagined, and his face seemed to be flushed more from cold than any wine or ale.

“Good evening Seigneur,” the soldier replied with a light bow. It was improper, but sincere. The young man was likely not educated in French etiquette or language. He spoke correctly, but his speech was heavily accented.

Kylo approached him under the lamppost. He was quite tall, only a few inches slighter than Kylo, who had been dubbed a giant by several other lords. Still, despite the few paltry inches difference, the Irishman had to look up at him, tilting his face at a most attractive angle, exposing the snowy white of his throat beneath a sloppily tied cravat. Kylo grinned at it. Despite his intentions being nothing but sinful, it seemed the heavens had granted him the perfect opportunity to attempt his seduction of the young soldier.

“Here now, you’ll catch your death if you leave that lovely neck exposed,” chided Kylo, removing his gloves and reaching up to tie the cravat properly.

The Irishman retreated slightly, but not enough to escape. Kylo took in the loveliness of his face and let his fingers trail liberally over his neck. He cocked his brow slightly when the Irishman made no attempt to speak to him, only returning his gaze coolly and evenly. Perhaps…

“Do you speak French?” asked Kylo.

“A little,” said the soldier with the simplest language.

That certainly made things easier. Kylo grinned, sliding his hands from the young man’s throat down his arms and taking his fridged, ungloved hands in his own. He scolded the soldier softly again, “You’re frozen. Did you lose your hat and gloves? Your mad Commander may well scold you for that.”

The Irish soldier made no motion to run and no sound in reply. He stood still and allowed Kylo to squeeze warmth into his fingers. There was no way the soldier could misinterpret the intention of the contact. He would have to be as naïve as a child to think the action was a platonic one, especially when Kylo looked down at him with unbridled hunger and lust. His gaze was so intense the slight red-haired man looked away, his cheeks becoming stained with a brighter pink. Did he want to leave? Would he be able to say so if he did?

Kylo let his eyes rake over him before releasing one hand to tilt the soldier’s chin up to face him. The other man kept his eyes cast to the side. Kylo spoke softly to him, “No, look at me. You’re so lovely. If I’d the skill I’d paint a portrait of you to always remember how beautiful you are…have you a name?”

When he received no reply Kylo spoke more simply, “Your name.”

“Ceallachan Hux…” said replied the man quietly.

“Kel-a-khan Hux…sweet, but not very Christian is it?” mused Kylo to himself, running the backs of his fingers over the soldier’s jaw, “Perhaps you aren’t a Christian. Perhaps you’re a little sprite or a nymph, a delicate little faerie creature. Sent by the pagan gods themselves to seduce goodly men. Is that what you are?”

The man had very likely not understood a single word Kylo had uttered, and that was just as well. He smiled down at the soldier and pulled his hand firmly, “Come with me.”

The man, Hux, finally showed some signs of alarm, his sea-green eyes widening only slightly and his lips parted wider. He seemed to understand what it was he found himself at the center of, but could not find the words to consent or refuse. Kylo trailed a finger over his plush lower lip. He hummed his approval, “These look as sweet as any fruit from the New World. I was very wrong to think your kind incapable of producing beauty or softness.”

“No Seigneur,” said Hux, finally pulling back, albeit nervously. He was an exile. He lived on the charity of Kylo’s king to his own and seemed to understand exactly what his position was. If Kylo gave him a command, as both his social superior and his host, Hux would have to obey him. He knew he could be punished for this if Kylo was in the mood to be cruel. Arrested on some trumped up charge that he would not be able to defend against with his poor French. He had given his name as well. Even if he ran, Kylo could identify him to a magistrate. Soldiers got up to all sorts of trouble during winter retirement. Nobody would have trouble believing an unruly, drunken Irish soldier had attacked a nobleman brazenly in the streets.

Kylo grinned smugly as he drew the soldier back towards him by the hand and replaced his fingers against his lips. He laughed slightly, darkly, “Did you mean to give a refusal or to deny that you’re a beauty?”

Hux tugged his arm lightly, trying to make himself as unthreatening as possible, “No Seigneur. I’m Catholic.”

“As am I. Which is exactly how you came to be in this country in the first place, isn’t it? Exiled by a cruel Protestant King and finding yourself embraced by your Catholic brothers?” mused Kylo, sharply pulling the man against him.

Kylo heard the familiar scrape of steel against steel and felt pressure against his ribs. He looked down at Hux, who looked up at him with fire and determination. It seemed he had given up on being civil and resorted to his crass, Irish ways, pressing a dagger to his side. It seemed when put in the position to choose between his life and his honour, he chose honour. Interesting.

“No Seigneur,” said Hux firmly, “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t be that way, I want to keep you company,” said Kylo, tapping the knife playfully to show Hux he was not afraid of it, “Aren’t you lonely so far from home? Where are your comrades?”

“I don’t understand, leave me alone,” said Hux more insistently, pressing the knife closer for emphasis.

“Now, now, don’t cut that. It’s probably worth more than you’ll earn in a lifetime,” chided Kylo. Hux did not move, so he sighed and let go. He was not going to keep his grip if the soldier was going to try to gut him.

Hux glared and him and aggressively shoved his dagger back into the scabbard next to his powder horn. He took a hesitant step back, watching to see if Kylo would follow. Seeing that he continued to stand under the lamp post Hux backed away a little more. Once he seemed to think he would not be followed, Hux turned and continued to walk away.

Kylo moved forward, as quietly as he could which was difficult with the shoes he wore. Luckily it only took a few strides to catch up to Hux and whirl him around, claiming those soft lips for himself and clamping a hand over the dagger to hold it fast in its sheath. The Irishman’s mouth was cold, but that was to be expected given the time of year and how long he had likely been outside. His shock or perhaps his own long hidden proclivities made the soldier go still and pliant in his arms, eventually going slack and allowing his slim body to be pressed close to Kylo’s. He tasted wonderfully earthy, like a grassy meadow or misty cliffs. Not a taste of wine or spirits; the Irishman was sober. His lips warmed slightly as Kylo ran a hand through that exotic red hair, lacing his fingers in it as he kissed Hux more deeply. In the distance the choir rang out a triumphant Adeste Fideles.

Kylo pulled back to breath and looked down at his little prize. His eyes were red and watery. His cheeks burned with humiliation. Another victim of Catholic-guilt if Kylo had to guess. The soldier probably wanted comfort in his exile. He probably longed for home and love. And now that he had found it his religion forbid him to take it.

“Come,” Kylo said more softly, taking the other man’s fingers again, “Let me be your home for a night.”

“Leave me,” said Hux shakily.

Kylo sighed through his nose, shooting jets of white vapour through his nostrils before he decided to change tactics. He looked Hux over, “You’re cold. Are you hungry? I’ll warm you.”

“I’m Catholic,” Hux repeated quietly, more desperately, though the words left his lips with hints of regret and longing.

“So am I, though I can’t say I believe anymore,” said Kylo, reaching up and stroking his cheek, “We’re all sinners here on this earth. I think your God will forgive you this after you’ve given so much to defend his Church. If he doesn’t, then I deserve you more than he does.”

Hux looked up at Kylo, still threatening to burst into tears. The nobleman sighed, “You…have no idea what I am saying, do you?”

Hux cast his face side and Kylo tried one more time. If the soldier resisted again Kylo would leave him to stew in his regret, honour and dignity intact. He pulled on Hux’s fingers again, “Come…”

The soldier followed.  

Kylo smiled softly and wrapped an arm around him as the distant choir sang a bombastic invitation to ‘venite adoramus.’ To anyone who might have been looking on, they would have seemed an odd pair, but not a suspect one. They were close enough in age that Kylo would seem more eccentric than he would have had he been a skivvy old man embracing a young foreign soldier.

Hux, Ceallachan, allowed himself to be lead away from the lamppost and the soft light beneath it through the dark and empty streets. The choir became more distant and was soon displaced by far off hoofs and rattling carriage wheels. Sometimes talking or laughter could be heard inside a home or alehouse. Kylo also heard Hux sniffling quietly, from the cold and from shame. Kylo hushed him gently, patting his arm reassuringly as they made their way to his carriage. The driver probably expected him to bring back some young, buxom woman with a heavily painted face and her ankles showing, not a heartsick Irish soldier.

He wondered what had put Hux into the state of mind that he would see it fit to wander the streets alone and stop to listen to a choir alone in the dark. Why not try to take comfort with his comrades? Did none of his family come with him to France when he was exiled? Perhaps he had a young wife who had no idea that her husband preferred the company of men. Or was he pining after his country? Was he missing his bogs and cliffs and rolling hills? Was he angry with God for allowing the war to go so poorly? Was he wondering if the Saints and Angels had turned their backs on him? Was he running off with Kylo to spite them?

“Have you a family?” asked Kylo.

“No Seigneur,” answered Hux brokenly.

“I see,” he said quietly.

“Les…The English…” Hux tried to explain.

“I see,” Kylo repeated more softly. So they’d been killed, or arrested. His family, his country, his cause, it seemed they’d all been taken from him. It was no small wonder he had become desperate enough to allow himself to be taken away by a man he barely knew, who had rank and privilege as his allies and all the dangers that entailed. The time of year probably amplified all of his feelings of loss, the bitterness of his loneliness mingling with the sweetness of a more innocent and happy time coming back to haunt him.

Hux’s breath hitched as he tried to stifle himself. Kylo pressed a kiss to try to give him some comfort. The soldier’s sorrow did nothing to mar his beauty. If anything, the depths of his loss and his brokenness made him lovelier. While his countrymen did not feel the need to stifle their feelings the way the English and Germanic countries did, it was rare to see such deep and profound loss, especially from one who most thought to be little more than an animal. He was so beautifully human and vulnerable.

“You’re so lovely,” murmured Kylo, trying to reassure him. He tucked Hux closer against him and rubbed his arm firmly, “Can you understand me?”

Hux sniffled again and Kylo pressed, “It’s alright, let your feelings out, but I need to know how much you can understand.”

“More than I speak,” said Hux quietly.

It was entirely possible that he had a basic understanding of everything Kylo had said to him. He knew he could understand more Latin and Greek than he would ever be able to speak. The flirtations may have escaped him though, being made up of words that were not commonly used in conversation. Still, it meant if he spoke plainly and slowly, Hux would probably be able to understand. He might not be able to answer a complicated question, but he might understand if Kylo told him he had nothing to fear from him.

“Where are you from?” asked Kylo carefully.

Hux mumbled quietly, “Close to _Duibhllin.”_

“Doove…Dublin? You’re from Dublin,” asked Kylo.

 _“Duibhllin_ ,” repeated Hux with a nod.

“And your barracks is at Saint Germain,” said Kylo to himself. He knew that much about the Irish brigade. He rubbed Hux’s arm and nuzzled against his hair. He had an interesting scent, though it was almost overpowered by smoke and gunpowder. He kissed the top of the soldier’s head and noted, “That’s quite a distance to travel. You’ve been here for a few months, yes? Do you like Paris?”

Hux said nothing in response to that. Perhaps he was refraining from being rude. How could anything compare to home when it was missed so dearly? He tried to imagine what home must be to Hux. Images of huts and cottages sprang to mind, despite knowing full well that Dublin was a city and had been one for centuries. He must be missing familiar sights and smells. His language and his customs as well. Kylo kissed Hux’s cheek and tasted salt and moisture on his skin, “It will be alright dearest.”

He was not sure why he said that. It was very likely that they both knew full well that things for Hux would not be alright. The Irish Brigade was cannon fodder. If he did survive this war, there would be others to follow on its heels. And if he should survive the next war, and the next, Louis XIV was not likely to make any attempt to restore James and his Stuart line to power, not in any great capacity, and James seemed, for the time being, content enough to sulk at Saint Germain. According to the stipulations of the Treaty of Limerick, Hux was in exile with his king, and could not go home unless William III was overthrown. It was not going to be alright. Hux was going bleed out on some field on the Rhine or in some unfamiliar city without seeing his homeland again. If he set foot upon that land again, it would be at the cost of his life.

“It will be alright,” Kylo repeated, trying not to think too hard about what a poor future was in store for the young soldier.

They approached Kylo’s carriage. As expected his coachman gave a wary glance at the soldier his master had his arm wrapped around fondly. He heaved a sigh and Kylo could not help a slight grin. Had he really been so strange in his choice of lovers that an Irish soldier was no longer surprising? The coachman dismounted and opened the door, holding it for his master and studying Kylo’s strange conquest.

“He’s exquisite, don’t you think, Dameron?” asked Kylo rhetorically, stroking Hux’s cheek, “Such sweet tragedy in his features. Like a Celtic Cassandra.”

“One of these days you are going to get caught and they are going to burn you in effigy on the palace lawns,” warned Dameron.

“I don’t bother you about that sailor you keep company with,” muttered Kylo. He wiped a few fresh tears from Hux’s cheek, “And you didn’t answer the question.”

“Yes, he’s handsome but…Is he alright?” asked Dameron a little more quietly, looking up at the soldier who kept his eyes averted.

“Just a little homesick, but that will all be mended soon, won’t it?” asked Kylo, squeezing Hux a little closer and peppering his cheek with soft kisses.

“Right, well, mend it in the carriage where nobody will see you and implicate me,” said Dameron insistently. He took a moment to think before adding, “But hold off on any serious mending until you’re home. I clean this thing myself you know.”

“It’s part of why you’re the best,” said Kylo. He pulled back from Hux, who seemed to try to follow for a moment before catching himself and holding still, looking away in shame as he realized how much desire he was expressing. Kylo bit back a slight laugh and squeezed the soldier’s fingers. Even after passing the point of no return he tried to cling to his propriety. Recalling how he had used a knife when he thought Kylo might force him, his honour and appearance must have been very important to him.

Not so important that he was going to refuse a night in a pair of loving arms though.

“It’s alright, go inside. It’s warmer,” assured Kylo, brushing some snow from Hux’s hair and uniform before motioning to the waiting door.

For a moment, Kylo thought he might try to walk away. He looked at the waiting doors and then at Kylo, who wondered what Hux was thinking. He could hazard a few guesses. He had pulled a knife on Kylo earlier, he may have been thinking this might be some sort of revenge. He was still crying, albeit quietly, he might be weighing his need for touch and love against his honour. Or perhaps he was weighing it against the possibility of damnation. Was a night of feeling alive and loved worth his soul? The loss of heaven and an eternity of hell?

He took a step towards the carriage, a shade of that animalistic nature that Irish soldiers were reported to have starting to show itself. He seemed a bit like a wild beast being lured into a cage. Kylo approached him as if attempting to tame him, settling a hand across the thick belt at his lower back, “That’s it…go ahead…”

Hux regarded Kylo quietly before moving slowly towards to open doors. He seemed to turn in Dameron’s direction, but kept his face cast down, avoiding the other man’s eyes as he climbed inside. Dameron looked over at Kylo once Hux was inside, “You’re sure he’s alright.”

“He’s homesick,” said Kylo dismissively before boasting, “And he’s Irish.”

“And how many countries does this make?” asked Dameron, who hardly seemed impressed.

“Not quite all of them,” replied Kylo, climbing in after Hux.

He could hear Dameron climbing back up to his seat and heard him mutter something irate sounding to the white, orange flecked horse that drew the carriage. In the dark, Kylo could hear Hux’s laboured breathing and stifled crying. He wondered briefly if Hux would attempt jumping from the carriage if he suddenly changed his mind. If the Irish reputation for suicidal charging into battle was any indication, jumping from a moving carriage and into the street was a very real possibility.

His breath hitched as Dameron clicked his tongue and the horse started off. The carriage jerked, swaying as they moved over uneven ground. Hux became quiet again, breathing heavily through his nose, seeming more like he was being transported to his execution than to a palace and a lover’s bed. Kylo really, truly hoped he was not stupid enough to fling himself towards the door as Dameron got the horse to pick up speed. Hux’s breathing would hitch and then become quiet as he gasped back sobs.

Kylo considered him quietly in the dark, letting him try and fail to calm himself, fighting some private battle he would likely never be privy to. Occasionally they would pass a streetlamp and he would glimpse the soldier’s pretty features. It was strange how enamoured Kylo felt with his tears. They streaked Hux’s face despite his best efforts to hold them back. Kylo considered moving forward to wipe them away, but with the way the carriage jolted, it might have been difficult to so without accidentally sticking a finger in Hux’s eye. It would have been easier if Hux was sitting beside him.

“Come here…” Kylo invited, leaning forward and groping in the dark for Hux’s hand. Finding it, he squeezed Hux’s fingers, finding they were still frozen. Just how long had he been wandering about alone? He looked at where he assumed the soldier’s face was, “Sit with me. Let me dry those tears for you.”

If Hux understood he did nothing to acknowledge the request, but he did quiet his breathing slightly.

Kylo pulled a little more insistently, but took care not to be too rough. In a small enclosed space, the Irishman being armed and possibly unhinged, he did not want to risk coming across as a threat. Still, he wanted Hux to understand what was being requested of him. Kylo shuffled to the side and thumped the bench beside him. He felt Hux’s hand stiffen before balling into a fist around his fingers.

With a quick motion, only tossed slightly by the swaying of the carriage, Hux sat down beside him. The soldier grunted slightly as he landed gracelessly, the pillow on the bench doing little to break his slight fall. Kylo grinned and pulled Hux close. Being rattled about, he marveled at how slight Hux was. Despite his rough profession he seemed to be built more like a philosopher. One of Kylo’s hands could almost wrap itself around his bicep. He wondered, briefly, if under his jacket, his hands might be able to circle Hux’s waist completely.

He cupped the soldier’s cheeks in his hands and wiped away his tears, “There, you’re alright. You’re such a beauty…too beautiful for marching along the Rhine or fighting on some Flemmish pitch.”

As they passed another lamp Kylo caught a glimpse of Hux’s eyes, shut with a look of resignation on his face as tears continued to stream silently down his cheeks and over his lips. It was such a serene, gentle expression, only visible for the briefest of moments before the light disappeared again and plunged them into darkness. He was too lovely to resist now that Kylo knew how stunning he looked hiding in the dark, bartering his soul for a night of life-affirming passion with imaginary devils.

Kylo moved in carefully, trying to account for the jostling in the carriage as he settled his lips across Hux’s again. The soldier let out a reticent whine and raised his hands to rest on Kylo’s shoulders. Kylo drank in the noise and Hux’s apprehension and sorrow with it. He was so vulnerable, so human, so unlike what Kylo had been taught to view him as. He licked and sucked at Hux’s plush lower lip, stroking his soft hair and soothing his damp, frozen cheeks. He pulled away only for air and to tell the soldier how beautiful and sweet he was. How lovely he looked and how good he was being.

Kylo heard a sob bubble up in Hux’s throat and felt numb, chilly fingers run through his hair. His tears started gushing freely again. He kissed back, meek and clumsy for a moment before he pulled away. He could not control his sobbing anymore and despite clamping his hands over his mouth and eyes he let out quiet coughing cries as he wept. Kylo pulled him close and stroked his hair, shushing him gently. Hux cried out something that Kylo could not understand. What he was trying to say seemed perfectly clear though.

He had sold his soul for the sake of a kiss.

“Shh…there now, you’ll be alright…” Kylo lied. There was nothing here for the soldier but death and exile and they both knew it. There was nothing for him in Kylo’s bed but guilt and damnation. Still, Kylo whispered sweet white lies to him, promising that he might find a home here, that when fighting resumed in spring and summer he would live, that there was a God who would forgive him his trespasses and would pardon him a single night of love and light in exchange for all the pain he had endured.

Hux pulled back and wiped his eyes, still weeping quietly. Kylo brushed his hands aside and kissed his salty tears away, “Shh…you’re so beautiful. You’re an angel from heaven.”

He was an angel, a fallen angel longing for his home beyond the stars. For how could one who had seen and tasted heaven, as home must have been to this exile, and be satisfied anywhere else? He cried pitifully for home, for his family, for a cause that would never come to fruition, for years condemned to live as a foreign curiosity, for being sentenced to fight for a man who was now little more than a puppet to a greater king. And for what? A God who had forsaken him? A family who all the blood-shedding in the world could not bring back? For a land he would never see again?

All in time for Christmas. A bleak gift from a worse midwinter.

“You’re an angel Ceallachan, a great and brilliant Saint Michael,” soothed Kylo. Hux started at that and Kylo heard himself move sharply in the dark. Perhaps he ought to have avoided mentioning the saint, who was regarded as a patron and protector of soldiers. The one who had spoken to Jeanne D’Arc two hundred years ago, guiding her to battle and fire. And now it seemed he had some sway over the Irish soldier before him.

Kylo hushed him and tried to pry his fingers back from his face. He murmured to him softly, “There’s no need to hide. Let me see your face. You’re such a beauty.”

Hux eventually pulled his hands away from his face. He was shivering from cold and his feelings in the dark. Kylo tucked him against his chest and stroked his hair. He felt so small. He could feel his hitching uneven breathing and his fluttering heart battering itself wildly against his chest. Blood pulsed savagely through his veins. He was so alive. In a year, perhaps two he would lie in some far-flung field in an unmarked grave, but here and now he was alive.

Kylo kissed the crown of his head and rubbed his back, “There, this is better isn’t it?”

He felt a pair of arms snake around his waist and drew himself in closer, dampening Kylo’s long skirted coat as his tears finally trickled and came to a stop. Kylo gave an approving hum, trying to reward him for managing to calm himself down and reciprocating his affection. He continued to stroke the short red hair and wondered about the man in his arms. Had he been with a man before? His protests about being Catholic might have indicated he had not, but perhaps in moments of desperation he had stolen quick kisses and tokens, playing forbidden life-affirming games with his fellows in the shadows. Had he been with a woman? It was hard to believe he had not. He was a very handsome young man. Surely he had a legion of admirers in his camp.

“Do you have a lover?” asked Kylo. Hux made no reply, so Kylo tried some other words, “A wife? A sweetheart?”

“Once,” replied Hux, his voice hitching.

“In your homeland, no doubt,” said Kylo, “A young woman?”

“Grainne,” said Hux quietly.

“Was that her name?” asked Kylo. He received no verbal reply, but felt a slight nod. He continued to stroke the soldier’s hair and shush him as if he were an infant. He sighed, “I want to kiss you, but I don’t want to break you.”

He pulled back slightly and Hux loosened his grip, pulling his hands back to likely come to rest in his lap. Kylo found his face in the dark and tilted his chin upwards, “I want to kiss you. Kiss. Do you understand?”

“Kiss?” Hux echoed, his tone clearly questioning.

“Kiss,” repeated Kylo, leaning in and chastely kissing his lips. The Irishman’s mind still seemed to be intact, if the fact that he did not break down again was any indication. He smiled slightly, “That’s a kiss.”  

“…kiss…” said Hux softly, committing the word to memory.

“Lips,” said Kylo softly, swiping his thumb over Hux’s mouth.

“Lips…” repeated Hux, his plush mouth rubbing against Kylo’s fingers with each syllable.

“Neck,” said Kylo, rubbing the backs of his fingers over what little neck the soldier had exposed. It was a beautiful white, like a marble column and riddled with light blue veins.

“Neck…” whispered Hux.

Kylo tugged at the cravat, “I want to kiss your neck.”

Hux quieted at that as he considered the request. Perhaps he was wondering if he was allowed to refuse. He was, of course, but the soldier might not have been aware of it, and of course the last thing Kylo wanted now was for Hux to try to stab him and hurl himself from the carriage. How could he communicate the man was allowed to say no?

“If you want,” said Kylo, moving his hands down to Hux’s, finding they had been in his lap after all. He squeezed them, “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Perhaps he was not apprehensive. Perhaps he was hunting for words in his mind, trying to find the vocabulary to explain himself. Who he was. The precise reason why he had allowed himself to be taken from the faded church choirs and dull light down dark streets to an unknown destination. Kylo waited for him, some warmth finally returning to his fingers. The soldier let out a sigh, his breathing finally evening out. He flexed his slim fingers in Kylo’s grip and spoke slowly.

“I’m sorry for the knife.”

Kylo let out a light huff, “It’s alright. You’re hardly the first one to attempt that.”

Hux spoke again, “I don’t do this. I’m honest.”

“I know,” assured Kylo.

“I’m not…” he trailed off, either hesitant or the word he needed was not coming to mind. Kylo waited as his thoughts sorted themselves and he continued in his simple, accented French, “I’m not bad.”

“No, you’re very good. I want to show you how good you are,” Kylo purred, brushing his fingers against the facings on Hux’s long skirted jacket. He soothed and purred, “So far from home, so alone, you’ve been very good to your king and country and to God. You deserve to be happy. You’ve more than earned it. I think I could make you happy, if only for one night.”

It was another little white-lie, but Hux seemed to be beginning to believe it, judging from the way his fingers flexed and twitched in Kylo’s grasp. The Irishman breathed deeply, deliberately, willing himself to calmness. He was bracing himself. Resigning himself. Preparing for himself for a night of everything he believed in being torn away so he could feel some shred of hope again. What they were going to do seemed so profound. It was more than a young libertine seducing a chaste, noble soldier. In a sense that was exactly what was happening, but there were so many more layers to Hux and his struggle, trapped behind a linguistic barrier and his dignity’s valiant final stand.

“Can I kiss your neck?” Kylo asked him again.

Hux slipped his fingers from Kylo’s grasp. He was silent for another long stretch of time. Finally he brought his hands down to Kylo’s and sighed, “I don’t know what you did to me.”

“Nothing. I’ve given you a chance to feel some peace, and you took it. It’s as natural a response as a man might have in your circumstances,” explained Kylo.

Hux raised Kylo’s hand to the elaborate knot he had tied in his cravat, “I don’t know what you did to me.”

“Oh…oh! I see, of course,” exclaimed Kylo with a slight laugh, untying the work he had done what seemed just a few short minutes ago. He laughed softly, “We’ll have to catch you up on your French, I expect. You speak English?”

“ _Gaeilge_ ,” replied Hux, “I don’t like English.”

“No, I expect you don’t…” said Kylo, loosening the high collar on Hux’s uniform.

“ _Is fearr Gaeilge briste, na Bearla cliste_ ,” added Hux in a strange tongue, a slight trace of haughtiness creeping into his tone. Was that what he was like when he was not on the edge of sanity? Was he a proud, haughty man, dedicated to his king and cause?

“I’ve no idea what you just said,” replied Kylo with a laugh, “But if it was a slight against the English, it was well spoken. Do you have any Latin?”

“Church Latin,” replied Hux. His grammar was poor, but Kylo understood. The only Latin education he had gotten was on Sunday mornings from the gospels and prayers, piecing the words and their meanings together by himself. Then there were a few words he might understand.

“ _Adoramus te_ ,” said Kylo, quoting the Gloria, despite the grammar not fitting but he knew the soldier would understand what he had said as he trailed his fingertips over Hux’s cold, marble throat.

Hux gave a sigh and in turn quoted the Agnus Dei, “ _Miserere nobis_ …”

Kylo gave a light sigh at Hux’s grim reply. It did, however make it unmistakably clear that he saw what they were doing as something sinful that he would have to take with him to the confession box before he could take other sacraments again. How many Paters and Aves would he have to say before the priests and his conscience were satisfied? How many hours would he have to spend on his knees before sculpted saints and stone-faced angels before he felt he could be forgiven for the horrible crime of wanting human touch and warmth?

Kylo leaned in and kissed him. He would much rather worship this Irishman, this so-called animal, than some distant and chilly being beyond his comprehension. He would rather kiss his warm pulse-point, feel how hot and alive he was under his lips than kiss and touch the feet of a slowly eroding statue, praying for impossible things like redemption and peace on earth. He would rather hang on his every gasp and stifled sound than a dreary sermon that proclaimed how impure and fallen he was. This poor living martyr, his own Jeanne, Sebastian or Florian. He was a glorious Michael, all in martial red, though Kylo doubted his tears were ones of compassion for the sinful state of mankind.

Hux gasped occasionally as Kylo explored the pretty white throat that had been bared for him. He searched for the places that would give him pleasure. It would not be enough to make him forget his pain or the taboo he was committing, but perhaps enough to distract him. Hux’s arms rested on Kylo’s shoulders to hold himself steady. He made no move to stop, but none to participate either. It was understandable. In the days that followed when his regret would begin to fester like a gangrenous wound, perhaps it would be a comfort to him. He might be able to imagine that his vice would be lessened if he simply allowed it to happen, rather than actively requesting, touching, reciprocating. That tearful kiss, broken by sobs and light coughing might be the only one Kylo would receive.

He did not mind. The soldier held himself still, and once he had begun to control his instinct to cast his face down to cover the sensitive, vital point, he managed to lift his face and grant Kylo all the access he could have wanted. His skin tasted much like his lips. It brought images of cliffs, an ocean, and mist swirling around hills and dreamy valleys. It may have been a fanciful imagination, or perhaps it was Hux’s tears that had soaked through his collars, giving everything a salty taste. In any case, his skin was perfect. Women at court would pay handsomely and spend ages having cosmetics applied to achieve the ivory white pallor of Hux’s throat with its striking contrast to the blue veins that trailed under his skin.

Kylo felt the carriage beginning to slow and sighed. He would not have much time now, and Hux had finally reached a point of willingness, hopeless and fatalistic as it may have been. He considered the soldier’s response. ‘Have mercy on us.’ Did he mean to include Kylo in his statement? Was the man, as low and broken as he was, praying for his soul as well? It may have been one of few Latin phrases he knew, but there was something romantic in the idea that this poor Irish exile, in spite of everything, had whispered a soft prayer for him in the midst of his dark night of the soul.

The carriage came to a halt and Kylo held Hux still to keep him from lurching forward. He heard Dameron come around to the side and opened the door, letting in a fresh winter chill. He called in a hushed voice, “I brought you around to the back…I’m assuming you don’t want to parade him through the front door.”

“No, but wouldn’t that be a sight?” asked Kylo with devilish amusement. He imagined the slight Irish soldier with all his rustic beauty and his arm looped in Kylo’s as he boldly made his way inside. All eyes would be on them, startled and outraged by the scandal. They would be hypocrites, all of them. Kylo was hard pressed to think of a single one of them who was not at least something of a hedonist. It was tolerated, provided the most offensive appetites were satisfied behind closed doors and inside locked chambers.

“You’d be fine. Probably just get exiled from court for a few months,” said Dameron before nodding his head in Hux’s direction, “You’d probably get him in worlds of trouble though, and I doubt he’d be able to support himself if he lost his commission.”

Kylo sighed at his coachman’s scolding. He would not get Hux discharged from the army. He would take every precaution to make sure they were not seen. Stepping down from the carriage, he turned to offer Hux his hand. The soldier looked at it before looking away and making his own descent. So he was stubborn as well as proud.

Dameron smiled brightly at him, his dark eyes flashing, “Hello. You’re looking better.”

Hux nodded slightly before uttering a quiet, “Good evening.”

“I told you he’d be mended,” boasted Kylo.

Hux tilted his head and leaned over slightly to look behind Dameron. The coachman looked over his shoulder before turning back to Hux and grinning brightly, “You like horses?”

“I like them,” replied Hux, still avoiding the man’s eyes for the sake of his shame.

Dameron walked to the horse and patted his neck firmly, “His name is Bébé. Not really an intimidating or grand name, but it suits him I think. You can pet him if you want.”

Dameron gestured to the horse, but Hux seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. He beckoned the soldier closer with a wave of his arm and patted the horse’s neck. Hux seemed to understand what was being asked of him, but whether he saw it as an invitation or an order was unclear. Hopefully, despite their disparity in rank, Hux understood that he was a guest. Kylo wondered if perhaps his earlier forwardness had given the soldier the impression that he would not be allowed to leave if he asked. If he had the words to ask.

Hux moved forward and held his hand up for the orange flecked horse to inspect. Bébé leaned forward and dropped his nose straight into the Irishman’s hand, possibly looking for sugar or bits of fruit that Dameron often treated him to. Hux reached up and stroked his nose, mumbling softly to the horse in his own tongue. He might have made some profound observation, or confided his anxious feelings, or said something sad or resigned. Whatever the case, Kylo knew he would never know, and that seemed to be part of the soldier’s charm. There was so much about him that Kylo would never understand.

“He’s sweet, if a bit scary looking,” observed Dameron.

“He’s also mine. I mean, really, what would your sailor say if he could hear you?” chided Kylo.

“What he says to me is no business of yours, Seigneur,” said Dameron with a wink.

Kylo’s etiquette training had all but beaten the ability to roll his eyes out of him. It seemed Dameron was the only one who could still draw that reaction out of him.

He looked over at the Irishman. He painted a pretty picture, illuminated by moonlight, snow streaking his bright hair as he whispered to the horse in some secret language. He really seemed like some faerie creature from a book of children’s tales. It was still his pain that gave him the most character though. Kylo doubted he would have found the man half as interesting if he lived some mundane life with all the ordinary troubles. He still would have looked lovely, but he would not have been drawn to him the way he was now.

“Come,” said Kylo, holding out his hand, “Let’s get you inside before you freeze again.”

Hux gave the horse a last look before stepping away. He approached Kylo, but did not take his hand. He looked over the building, the palace nearby. He turned to get a better look, snow crunching softly beneath his boots as he took in the sheer scale of the building. They may have had buildings and even a castle in Dublin, but Kylo doubted that it was as grand as Versailles, or the Grand Lodgings for that matter. There seemed to be something happening inside in one of the far rooms. Someone played a harpsichord and there was laughter. Probably someone hosting a night of billiard games which Kylo had not been invited to. It was just as well. He knew how to make his own fun, and this would distract them from watching for secret rendezvous and other gossip-fodder.

“Goodnight,” called Dameron as Kylo took Hux’s arm.

The soldier looked back and gave a polite ‘goodnight’ in reply. He was well, if differently mannered, and allowed himself to be led. Through Kylo’s peripheral vision he could see him looking about, lips parted as they passed through chandeliered hallways decked with gold leaf. Portraits of nobles and royals stood sentry as they passed. Kylo would have been startled if the grandeur of the place did not impress him at least a little. Few could keep their breath when they saw the most beautiful palace in all of Europe, in all the world, with their own eyes.

They passed a portrait and Kylo stopped briefly to point out the subject, a brunette man with mid-length wavy hair and a scarred face, clad in black armour. “My Grandfather.”

Hux looked up at it and studied it briefly. He was likely as ignorant to French history and notable families as Kylo was to those in Ireland. The painting likely did nothing to interest him, but he looked up out of a sense of obligation, and possibly out of fear for causing offense. Kylo hoped it was not the later, but understood the response. To Hux this was just a picture of a long dead relative belonging to a man he barely knew. Without knowing his story, the betrayals by dear friends, the beautiful woman who died from a broken heart, the spiriting away of twins, and the restoration of a rightful heir by a mysterious patron, the picture probably seemed just that. A picture. Pigmented oil on a piece of cloth. Kylo wanted to explain, to recall the whole story from beginning to end, and he would have if he thought Hux could have understood.

He sighed and led the other man away, bringing him deeper within the palace to his chambers. To his bed and the forbidden fruit that the soldier had reluctantly accepted. Of course, Kylo did not want to charge headlong into it. He wanted to warm him up first, make sure he had something hot to drink, made sure he was as comfortable as a man who had resigned himself to a taboo out of desperation so he could feel something amidst his misery was capable of being.

For a moment Kylo wondered whether it would have been kinder to leave him alone in the light listening to Latin hymns. Would he have calmed himself? Would he have come to his senses in his own way in his own time? Would he have eventually found peace? It was equally likely that he might have hurt himself, cast himself into the Seine like so many other suicides to mingle with the filth and dust to which everyone was bound to return. No, it was good that he had brought the man here. It was the most charitable thing he might have done. He would stay with the soldier until dawn and give him the care he needed so dearly.

He directed Hux into his quarters and set to work lighting lamps. The Irishman stood awkwardly to the side, nervously pressing his fingers into the palms of his frozen hands as he kept his eyes trained on the floor. Was this the first time he had done this? Even if he was young, soldiers were notorious for visiting ale houses, play houses and certain other houses of ill repute. As he looked about the room, spacious and splendid, Kylo wondered if he might begin to weep again, now that the reality of what they were about to do seemed inescapable. He still could escape. He only had to let out another, ‘No Seigneur,’ brandish his knife or make some other indication that he wanted to leave and Kylo would have him taken back to Paris.

“You can sit down,” said Kylo, motioning to a chair in the corner, “In fact I’d prefer it. You’ll be more out of sight if someone walks in. You should probably hide your jacket too. We can’t have someone saying a member of your company was here, can we? Don’t worry, I’ll have a fire started for you soon. You won’t be cold for much longer.”

Hux seemed to understand the part where he was being asked to sit, but kept his jacket on and his hands on his thighs, still squeezing his fingertips into his palms. He was very unlike the other lovers Kylo had had. Usually they were foreign diplomats, merchants, sometimes soldiers. They all came seeking different things. Some of them only sought pleasure, some wanted the thrill of breaking taboos and so-called natural laws. There were those who came to him as a sort of revenge against a spouse or lover, and those who came to seek escape from the mundane trappings of life. Hux was the first to join him because of a sense of loss. With the exception of his place in the army, this most recent war had cost the poor soldier everything. He was a wayfarer, a little lost soul seeking something that might bind him back to earth, and he was so desperate for it he was prepared to part with his very soul. Miserere nobis indeed.

Kylo rang for an attendant and when he arrived requested hot drinks and for a fire to be started. The servant did not look at Hux, he might not have noticed him in his dark corner as he set to work starting a fire before leaving to send word to the kitchen for coffee to be sent. Kylo wondered if they had coffee in Ireland, or if Hux had a chance to visit one of the many coffee shops that seemed to be springing up around the city. Did the man even like coffee?

“I’m not bad,” Hux repeated from his corner dejectedly.

“No, of course you’re not,” assured Kylo, “Nothing as lovely as you could be bad.”

“I’m good, honest,” he said quietly, clearly trying to convince himself more than he was Kylo.

“You’re very good. You want to be loved. That doesn’t make you bad at all,” said Kylo approaching slowly and trying to comfort him as warmth slowly seeped back into the room from the fireplace. He sat in a chair opposite Hux, “Can you tell me your story? About your family and Grainne?”

“The English. Protestants,” said Hux with quiet malice. He moved his lips as he glared, clearly trying to find words to explain what had happened. Whatever it was, it had clearly been angry enough to spark a rage that the soldier barely seemed able to contain.

“They always seem to be the cause of our ills, don’t they?” replied Kylo quietly, “I suppose you were at the Boyne? Limerick?”

Hux seemed more intrigued when he heard those familiar names, but still angry, irked as he replied, “I know them.”

“Were you there?” repeated Kylo.

“I was,” replied Hux. He seemed to calm even further as he asked, “Ballineety. Do you know it?”

Kylo cocked his brow, “Ballineety?”

Hux held up a fist and giving it a light shake said, “Royal artillery.” He led up another hand, “Me.” He rammed his latter fist into the former, which he burst open with a sound mimicking gunfire with his mouth. He sat back in his chair with a smug, satisfied grin on his face.

“You blew up the English Royal Artillery?” guessed Kylo with an incredulous laugh.

“With General Sarsfield,” said Hux with a light huff of laughter. The smirk faded from his face slowly, quietly, “Then Limerick…”

Kylo nodded his understanding. It had been the last siege in that theater of the war, and the place where a treaty had been signed that would doom Hux to exile. He sighed softly, “Then Limerick.”

He watched as the Irishman’s melancholy returned. It seemed a profound and frightening thing to lose everything. Kylo had often imagined it. He had gained everything once, when it was discovered that his grandfather had once been a man of great standing and power. He had imagined what might happen if he lost his rank and privilege at court. Where he would go and how he might live. He had distant relations, but no family living with him to speak of. He had a place to live and did so in comfort. Perhaps the idea did not eat at him the way it ate at Hux because he had nothing he was truly afraid of losing. He admired the soldier’s depth of feeling, to love so deeply and feel such hate and emptiness as a consequence.

“I still say you’re too lovely for marching on some far off Flemmish field,” said Kylo, trying to change the topic, to distract Hux from his pain for a little while, “How is it that such a beautiful man came from as wild a place as Ireland?”

Hux either did not understand, or pretended not to as he faced Kylo, looking over the other man quietly. He shook his head slightly and said, “I don’t kiss men.”

“You don’t have to,” said Kylo. He considered adding that it was enough if Hux simply allowed himself to be kissed, but the other man might take it as an indication that he was obligated to let Kylo kiss him.

Hux screwed his mouth into a grim but determined expression. It was clear, despite his misgivings that he was adamant that he would follow through with this. He had come this far and nothing was going to stop him now. It was a strange sort of resignation he had. He was by no means pleased about any of the things that had led him to this point, and clearly dreaded the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but he seemed the sort who kept with a decision once he began to follow through with it. This was the decision his life had led him to make, and he would not back out of it. It made Kylo glad to know that he would stay the night, that he would not run away, but he had never been with a person who wanted pleasure in the way that Hux did. It was discomforting to think that Hux might not want to be here or continue, but pressed on because this was the means he had chosen to destroy himself.

Most men used a chair and a rope for that, not sex.

Hux sighed and touched his collar where his cravat had been loosened and untied, “Steinkirk.”

He began tying it again in the sloppy way he had it before, letting it hang loose down his front, “I was at Steinkirk. The enemy came. We were asleep. We dressed quickly. Like this. We call it ‘Steinkirk.’ It’s not wrong.”

Kylo gave a nod, letting Hux talk about whatever he pleased to calm himself down. If that topic was that he had not improperly tied his cravat, and that it was actually fashionable for soldiers to wear them like that, then so be it.

“Where is your hat?” asked Kylo.

“I left it,” replied Hux, his poor French forcing him to be blunt.

“Where are your gloves?”

“I don’t have gloves.”

Hux looked towards the window, watching large, clumping snowflakes fall idly. Did it snow in Ireland? Of course it did. It had to. It was further north and it was an island, so it stood to reason that it would snow there just as, if not more often than it did in France. Perhaps out the window the two countries looked the same to him with the darkness and fat snow falling silently to the ground.

“You won’t get very far in life if your hands freeze. You should buy gloves,” advised Kylo, “If you lose your fingers you won’t be able to use your firelock. Surely you earn enough to be able to afford a decent pair of gloves.”

Perhaps money was not his concern. Perhaps with his broken French he was not confident enough to go to a tailor’s shop alone and too proud to ask one of his fellows for assistance. Kylo wondered if he had any spares that might suit him. They would all be too big for him, but he might know a charitable woman from his camp who would be willing to take them in for him. He wondered, when they were forced to part, if it was appropriate to give Hux a parting gift. Not coin. Nothing that might suggest that he was in any way a person with loose morals. But surely he might give the man something. After losing so much, even if it was a small token, Kylo felt compelled to restore something, anything, to him.

The room had warmed significantly by the time the coffee had arrived. The servant may or may not have glimpsed Hux. If he had, he said nothing, and Kylo slipped him a small coin to ensure he would continue to say nothing. Kylo brought the tray to Hux himself, an act that would have seemed scandalous to his peers. One of their own, eccentric, but with noble French blood coursing through his purple veins, deigning to serve some lowborn Irish soldier. Kylo did not mind. He had not grown up in poverty, but his means had not been great by any stretch of imagination before his inheritance was restored to him. This small, charitable action did nothing to damage his pride.

He poured Hux a cup and the rich, bitter aroma filled the room. Kylo motioned to the cream and sugar, “Do you want any?”

Hux shook his head as he examined to contents of the cup, “No, thank you Seigneur.”

“My name is Kylo Ren,” the nobleman added, pouring a cup for himself with a large helping of cream and small spoonful of sugar.

Hux studied him over the rim of the fine porcelain cup before replying, “Seigneur is better…”

“We can be companions tonight, no need for titles,” assured Kylo, “I call you Ceallachan.”

Hux started slightly at his name and his cheeks reddened again, “I’m…not Ceallachan.”

“Oh?” asked Kylo, taken aback by that revelation.

Hux set his cup down on the tray and held up a hand, “Pierre,” then the other as he said, “Caillou.” He repeated the actions as he said, “Jeanne, Jeannette.” He repeated it again and said in a conclusive way, “Ceallach, Ceallachan. Do you understand?”

Kylo nodded as he considered that, “It’s a diminutive. A nickname.”  

“A nickname,” Hux echoed, mouthing the word again to commit it to memory.

So the soldier had given his nickname, something his comrades might have called him affectionately, or his parents and lover when he still lived with them in his wild homeland. It may have been nerves that had compelled him to give that name, rather than his proper one, or perhaps he had simply been longing to hear someone else say it. It was hard to tell if he had a preference as to which name he preferred where his companions were concerned, but it was clear that here, with Kylo, Ceallachan was far too personal, too intimate a thing to be called.

“Hux is better,” said the soldier, retrieving the cup once again and warming his fingers with it.

“Then I shall call you Hux,” said Kylo, immediately missing the way ‘Ceallachan’ had rolled off his tongue. It was a lyrical name and contrasted almost painfully with his harsh, Spartan surname. Kylo sighed and motioned for him to relax, hoping the soldier would understand what the way he waved his arm meant, “Be at ease, drink. It’s better than anything you’ll find in one of those dreary coffee shops, I promise you that.”

Kylo drank from his own cup to emphasize the point, humming at the pleasant flavour. It had been well roasted and had a rich flavour. Hux watched before raising the cup to his lips and taking a sip. His sea-green eyes widened slightly under a flutter of orange lashes before he calmly replaced the cup on the tray, staring at it, considering, while his lips tightened and puckered slightly. Though he did not say a word, Kylo understood. He hated the drink but did not want to offend his host.

“It’s better with cream and sugar,” said Kylo, pointing to them.

“No, thank you Seigneur,” said Hux politely.

Kylo stifled a grin at that. It was already rumoured that men, real men, took their coffee straight while adding anything to it was weak and womanish. Was the soldier’s pride really such a fragile thing? Kylo did not want Hux to choke the drink down if he hated it, but did not want to do him any injury by sweetening his coffee for him. His pride had taken many blows that night already and Kylo had no desire to pile them on so frivolously.

Hux turned his attention back to the window and the snow. He looked so lovely in his corner with the flicker of firelight playing across his pale, contemplative features. If they had had more time together, Kylo might have asked him to sit for a portrait to be painted of him. His physical features were stunning, surely not even their English enemies would be foolhardy enough to deny something so self-evident. Still, the tragedy of the poor exile was what made him beautiful. As he sat quietly, wrestling with his conscience even after his decision had been made final, Kylo could only guess at the thoughts that ran round his head in that faerie-like tongue of his.

His orange brows knitted slightly as he gazed out the window. It was a searching look, scanning for something in the dark beyond the glare of the light. Kylo turned slightly, wondering what the Irishman had spotted before he heard a quick grinding of sugar, a plop of cream and a spoon quickly striking porcelain as it stirred around a cup. Kylo grinned to himself and stifled a laugh. That was really too precious. He turned, doing his guest the courtesy of pretending not to have noticed his moment of ‘weakness’ as the Irishman sipped gingerly from the cup, seeming much more pleased with it now.

Kylo slid a small plate of sweets towards him, “Do you like chocolate?”

Hux looked down at the plate and clearly did not recognize anything he saw. They were simple, thin wafers, just a little sweetness to offset the bitterness of the drink. Kylo pushed the plate towards him more insistently. Hux cautiously replaced the cup, now drained, and looked over the wafers. Sighing slightly, Kylo took one as well, hoping the Irishman would indulge himself if his host did as well. That seemed to have been what the soldier had been waiting for, carefully taking one and nibbling on it, possibly afraid he might dislike it as much as straight, black coffee.

He seemed to like it well enough, taking small, slow bites to savour it. He would look down at the wafer, lost in thoughts that may have been profound or mundane. Kylo was glad that at least he had given Hux something he seemed to enjoy and given him just a little bit of sweetness. He wiped the melted remains of the wafer across his lower lip and flicked his tongue quickly over both of them before repeating, “Thank you, Seigneur.”

“You’re not half as savage as people let on,” Kylo noted quietly to himself. Hux was not well-mannered, but he was clearly putting forth an effort to be so. In spite of all his crying, his emotional turmoil, the dread and anticipation of what he was about to do, he was making the greatest attempts to be gracious and polite. Kylo made up his mind. Sarsfield did not deserve Hux. Neither did Ireland, James, Louis or even God himself. Nobody deserved this little soul who had lost everything and gained nothing for his pains. None were worthy of the depth of tragedy he had been forced to endure. Yet, he would offer the little martyr what temporary comfort he could.

Kylo began to untie his own cravat and Hux looked away, though not for his own sake it seemed. Perhaps among his own people it was considered proper to look away when someone else undressed. Kylo unbuttoned his purple, nearly black jacket before shrugging it off his shoulders and onto the chair behind him, revealing a black waistcoat with red-gold vines and leaves embroidered into it. He stopped and watched Hux carefully. The soldier’s eyes occasionally glanced up from the floor, but for the most part he kept them averted.

Stopping, Kylo reached a hand out to him. Hux watched, quiet, resigned and submissive as Kylo leaned over the table and undid his ‘Steinkirk’ cravat with a slow tug with the tips of his fingers. It came undone easily, baring the Irishman’s throat, whiter and softer than any dove. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed on nothing and his eyes began to water again. Hux closed them, his breathing becoming slow and deliberate again before they opened, fixed, clear and determined.

He sat back and began to unbuckle his belt, taking great care not to allow his knife, purse or powder horn to fall to the floor. Kylo watching his nervous, cautious movements. This had to have been his first time baring himself to another man like this, if his litany of, ‘I’m good’s and ‘I’m not bad’s were to be believed. He undid the clasps on the green facings of his jacket and let it fall open, revealing a simple white shirt, laced up the front. It must have been horribly chilly going about in the dead of a December night like that, but perhaps the numbing cold was what Hux had wanted.

Hux paused, unable or unwilling to look up as he repeated again, “I…I don’t do this. I’m good.”

“You have no idea how good you are,” Kylo assured him, looking over the pretty soldier. He was so thin. It was a wonder that he could carry himself, let alone his pack and his guns with such a small frame.

Kylo watched him fumble with his shirt laces before pulling out a thin, leather rope tied loosely around his neck. Hux struggled with the knot for a moment before it too came off, a cross and medal with it. The soldier looked at them, sitting lifelessly in his hand, offering no comfort that Kylo could hear. As Kylo suspected, Hux’s devotion was indeed to Saint Michael, the Archangel who had cast Satan himself from heaven and perpetually fought for the salvation of mankind. The special protector of soldiers. It seemed that one poor, wretched little soul had passed him by undetected though. Had Hux prayed to him for deliverance? For his country to be spared the tyranny of a Protestant king? Had he wept bitterly when the only answer he received to his prayers was a resounding, ‘No’?

Hux set the medal and cross, both worn out by fervent fingering, on the arm of his chair over the red sleeve of his discarded jacket. He looked at them there, as if they might suddenly spring to life and chastise him for his faithlessness before he turned his attention downwards and reached under his shirt again. He pulled out something else this time. It looked like a necklace, but with worn out pendants on either side hanging from a dark brown cord. One that would rest over the center of his breast and another that would sit at the nape of that beautiful white neck. Kylo had heard of them, scapulars, devotional objects that Our Lady of Mount Carmel herself had promised would grant salvation to any faithful soul who wore it and trusted in God at the hour of death. For a man who might be shot down suddenly, it must have given his mind a great comfort.

Hux discarded it too, looking over his small collection of devotional objects before repeating, “I’m good…”

“You’re very good, and you’re very sweet,” Kylo assured him. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and let it bunch behind him, not half as reverent as the sad soldier before him. He loosened his own shirt, undoing laces and ties. There were no protective metals or crosses under his shirt, just muscles from long hours of swinging sabers and rapiers. He looked at Hux, who was unbuttoning the galoshes from his boots before slipping them from his feet. Without his jacket and his bulky boots he seemed much smaller, more fragile, like he would sooner shatter than bleed. He was all in white under his martyr’s red. He was a sad sight with his melancholic, resigned and somehow resolved expression, though it only seemed to make him lovelier.

Kylo slipped his own shoes from his feet with considerably less effort. He shoved them carelessly under the table with his foot. He stood, holding his hand out for Hux to take. The soldier looked at it, pondered over it, before slipping his fingers over Kylo’s. Kylo smiled down at him warmly, “Come.”

And the soldier stood.

It seemed a miracle that he could stand, as thin as he was. With such fine limbs he imagined Hux would snap under his own weight, never mind a pack or rifle. Without his uniform he no longer looked like a soldier. He seemed far too waifish and delicate for that, and the way his hair fell over his eyes and he looked away with shame made him seem like more of a boy than a man. Kylo wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, now able to feel his heat beating and his lungs emptying to raggedly draw breath again without layers of cloth to separate them. Kylo moved one hand to tilt his chin upwards slightly, “Look at me…”

Hux allowed his face to be turned and tilted at Kylo’s pleasure, but kept his stunning eyes trained on the wall. Kylo repeated, “Look at me. I want to kiss those dainty lips of yours.”

He glanced up, briefly, and his lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Kylo waited a moment in case he did have something to say. A refusal, an apology for making a terrible mistake, or a final declaration that he was a good and honest man who did not give in to these sorts of temptations. There were no words though, and so long as his lips remained silent and free for the taking, Kylo would claim them.

Kylo kissed him, feeling Hux’s hands come to rest on his sides, though it was likely more for grounding than leverage. He found his hands might not be able to encompass the soldier’s waist, but one could span the small of his back almost completely, keeping him close and tight against him. His other hand laced its fingers in Hux’s short hair, a novelty since long hair seemed to be the fashion as of late. It was remarkably soft with a brilliant, brassy shine in the firelight. Kylo hummed against his lips, kissing him softly, trying to show him how good and gentle he would be to him. More than that, he wanted to prove, if only for tonight, he could make Hux feel whole and loved again. He tasted of chocolate and coffee, though that faded slightly with every kiss.

“So beautiful…” Kylo whispered between kisses, “You deserve this.”

Hux waited patiently for Kylo to act on him, gasping occasionally when a hand moved along his slender back or over a particularly sensitive area on his neck or scalp. Kylo resisted the urge to dip his hands lower, to claim him with playful roughness the way he had with so many others. Hux might not be able to understand it. Was he familiar with such a game? Would he understand if Kylo told him it was just a bit of fun to take his mind off of his troubles? Probably not. So he continued with slow, soothing touches. They seemed to be the ones Hux needed the most.

He pulled back reluctantly, immediately missing the warmth and grounding taste of Hux’s lips. Hux seemed to miss it as well, leaning in ever so slightly when Kylo moved away from him. He took the soldier by his fingers and gestured to the bed. Hux pursed his lips slightly and took a hesitant step towards it, then another. Kylo moved with him, a hand across his back ready to reassure him if he wanted that small comfort as he drifted silently across the floor. Finally he turned, lowered himself lightly, and sat on the side. He seemed slightly surprised when it sank in under his weight, and his fingers tested the softness of the sheets with that ever-present resigned look haunting his countenance.

Kylo sat beside him and Hux finally spoke, “Thank you. For the coffee.”

Kylo reached over and stroked his hair, “You’re so sweet…how could anyone think you bad or brutish?” He waited to see if Hux had anything to say to that before running his hand from his hair down his neck, now free from the burden of ropes and pendants. Seeing it caused the soldier no great discomfort, he continued down his chest, pausing to occasionally trace testing little circles with his fingertips. Kylo hummed quietly, watching as Hux looked away again. He was not initiating, but not trying to dissociate either. His mind naturally drifted elsewhere, but not so much that he felt the compulsion to leave.

His hand made its way down to Hux’s stomach before the soldier spoke again, “I don’t…”

“I know,” Kylo sighed softly, gently, “You’re very good.”

He leaned in for another kiss, tasting cliffs and green hills again without a trace of the coffee and chocolate he had partook earlier as Hux let out a high-pitched sigh. The soldier seemed comfortable with his neck and chest being touched, so he let his hands roam cautiously over the slender form in front of him. He could feel his warmth, all of the fine little ribs threatening to poke through his skin and shirt. Did he eat enough? Some found it a difficult thing to do when their hearts were in no state to sustain themselves. He heard Hux gasp reticently as his chest was touched by slow, cautious hands. How long had it been since someone had touched him like this? At least a few months, possibly longer.

Kylo broke the kiss and moved down to his neck, carefully ghosting his lips over the alabaster column of his throat. With nothing to drink in his voice, Hux’s breathy gasps mingled with the popping and crackling of the fireplace. Kylo asked questions he knew Hux could not answer against his downy skin. Was this good? Did he enjoy it? How would he prefer being touched? He was clearly not averse, judging from the way he stayed seated of his own volition and made soft contented noises that said nothing and meant everything.

“May I undress you?” asked Kylo. Hux let out a confused, if pleased hum as Kylo traced beneath his no-doubt snowy breast. Kylo pulled back slowly before repeating, “Undress. Like this.”

He undid the rest of his own buttons with Hux looking at the other man’s knees as he slid the shirt from his shoulders. Chest now fully bared, he moved in a little closer and tugged at where Hux’s shirt was tucked into his pants. He rested his chin on Hux’s shoulder as he tugged at the fabric lightly. He heard Hux swallow something back and gasp quietly as he seemed to grasp the meaning of the request. Kylo kissed and nuzzled the shell of his ear and whispered, “Will you permit me? I want to see all the little gems you’ve been hiding under that uniform.”

Hux swallowed again before he stammered out a quick, “D-do it.”

Kylo purred and sucked on his earlobe, drawing a surprised gasp from the Irishman, “You’re so sweet to indulge me like this. Don’t worry, I’ll be good to you. I’ll help you forget, if only for a moment.”

He pulled the shirt and pulled the remaining laces loose, letting it fall open. Kylo hummed as he examined the rising and falling of his naked chest. He opened the shirt wider and a harsh breath escaped Hux as he was exposed and intimately inspected. In proper daylight the man’s pallor must have been positively blinding, but here and now it was a willing canvas for all the oranges and yellows the fire’s flickering glow casted upon it. The soldier was thin, but not wretchedly so. He may have neglected food due to his melancholy, though it seemed he had enough sustenance to keep him in a healthy state. All of his muscle was thin and sinewy like a greyhound, giving the slightest of definition to his chest and abdomen. His collarbone was well defined between his thinness and light musculature, creating a delicious hollow space at the base of his throat that Kylo knew he was going to lavish with attention before the night was out. That and a pair of dusky nipples. They did not seem to be a dark colour, but they made a stark contrast against the white of his skin.

“Look at you…” Kylo whispered huskily against Hux’s neck, sliding the shirt off of his shoulders, squeezing them lightly as he continued to watch the beautiful rising and falling breast laid out before him. Hux breathed lightly, raggedly, and Kylo could feel heat radiating from his cheeks. There was shame, it seemed there was no avoiding that with the soldier, but perhaps there was some pleasure as well. The Irishman busied himself by slipping his wrists free from his shirt cuffs as Kylo studied him more diligently than any book he had been forced to take up by his schoolmaster. He wrapped his arms around Hux, settling one hand over the center of his chest and the other just below his ribs. He rubbed his cheek against the soft, vulnerable flesh at the soldier’s neck, “You naturally have the most desirable complexion on the whole continent. You would not believe the lengths and costs women go to in order to achieve what you have.”

Hux pulled back and turned slightly to face Kylo. He looked hurt at first, which quickly gave way to furrowed brows, narrowing eyes and tight lips. What had he…? Kylo nearly gasped as he realized it. Hux must have heard the word woman, but not understanding anything else, he must have come to the conclusion that Kylo was making a joke at his expense. Kylo shushed him preemptively and rubbed his fingers gently along the blue veins beneath his translucent skin, “This colour. Women like this colour. That’s all I said.”

He spoke earnestly and Hux’s expression softened at the words. Kylo sighed, “You’re much more beautiful than them anyways. You feel so much more profoundly than they ever could.”

As Hux relaxed further against his hands Kylo continued to praise him, holding the lithe body close to his own. He kept everything as slow and gentle as he could, delicatey easing the soldier into the idea of being touched. Hux was responding beautifully, leaning back against his chest, breathing deeply and letting out the occasional hum when Kylo found somewhere sensitive. Kylo pressed a series of kisses to the crook of his neck. He allowed himself to become a little more insistent as Hux became more accepting. He gently circled a nipple, feeling Hux shudder and listening to him gasp lightly. Kylo smiled softly, “It’s alright. You have a beautiful voice. Let it out if you need to.”

He raked his fingertips lightly over the soldier’s chest to play with his other nipple, his free hand sliding down to his high-waisted breeches. He let his fingers pluck at and circle the buttons, “May I undress you?”

Hux let out a slight whine and rested his cheek against Kylo’s head. His hands gripped the soft sheets beneath him, opening and closing rhythmically. Slowly, one by one, Kylo undid each of the buttons in turn. Hux shivered and pressed closely as his breeches came loose and slid down his waist, revealing a trail of dark red hair running downwards from his navel. He trailed his fingers through the wiry curls listening to Hux’s wordless exclamations. Kylo kissed one of the darker freckles on his shoulder, “That’s it, let go. I’ll take care of you.”

He let the nipple go so he could wrap his arm around Hux as firmly as he could. With his other hand he rubbed the soldier through his loosened clothing. He let out a fretful whine and pressed closer. Judging from the muscles Kylo could feel twitching against the top of his head, Hux was clenching his eyes shut. Kylo moved his hand steadily and methodically, working his way lower to slide between the Irishman’s legs, his breeches lowering slightly with every pass. Quavering, Hux opened his legs, granting Kylo more access to the intimate space between them. He moaned lightly, his hips starting to thrust forward shallowly. Kylo felt him slowly become hard against his hand, his bodily instincts finally starting to drown out his distraught mind. Squeezing gently, he gauged the size and shape of the appendage before tracing it lightly, earning another anxious whine from Hux. Kylo resisted a laugh, it might be misinterpreted as an insult as he said, “You’re quite the man, aren’t you? You become more and more exquisite by the second.”

Kylo felt his own arousal build at the sounds and sights before him. This rare, tragic beauty, shaking in his arms, crying out for nothing and everything, experiencing a pain and loneliness so deep he was willing to trade salvation to staunch it. He felt privileged to be a part of it, that of all the beds he might have gone to seeking comfort, Hux had somehow come to his. He was as heart-rending as any Cassandra or Iphigenia, ancient beauties destroyed by wars of greater men, and for a night he would be Kylo’s to console in his time of trouble.

Kylo moved his hands away and Hux whined at the loss, his mind now fixed on satisfying his body’s growing need for contact allowing everything else to fade away. Kylo moved off the bed, kneeling before him and placing his hands reverently over the soldier’s narrow hips. He pulled down his breeches, slowly, so he could take in the sight of his white body being exposed to him and the soldier’s face running a gamut of emotions from humiliation to resignation to something that almost resembled hunger. Kylo lowered them to Hux’s thighs before unfastening the ties and buttons at his knee and pulling away the last line of defense between Kylo and the soldier’s modesty.

He was completely naked now, white and glowing like a marble saint but so much more approachable and warm. Kylo rested his hands over Hux’s knees, a supplicating gesture reserved for ancient kings, before running them over his thighs. There was much more muscle here, the soldier had strong legs to bear him alone from war to war. Hux closed his eyes, but not tightly, giving himself over to be touched and cared for. Kylo briefly slipped his hand back to his reddened shaft and Hux tossed his head lightly and groaned at the contact. With his other hand Kylo gently pushed him, guiding him onto his back.

He laid down and Kylo could feel tension coursing through his svelte body. He was not bad, he was good, and he did not do this. That seemed to indicate that he was not familiar with this sort of position. Kylo made soft, soothing noises, running a hand over the soft skin of his thighs and belly. He reached for the drawer of his bedside table as he continued to soothe the skittish soldier, “Shh…you’re doing so well. Relax, make yourself calm…there…shh…such a pretty little waif, just like a faerie…the masters of Italy could not paint a more stunning angel…”

He whispered soft terms of endearment as he found a small vessel of oil. He would need that later. Setting it at the ready by his knee, he let his hand roam the soldier’s body. Eventually he drew one back to the possibly untouched area between his legs. Hux let out a fretful whine and his toes curled when Kylo drew his fingers over his entrance. Kylo moved closer, resting between his legs and watching his face carefully. It was not just to see his features twist in pleasure. If Hux was pushed too far he may not be able to say it. It forced Kylo to rely heavily on his expressions and movements to judge whether he was giving the Irishman any pleasure or not.

This seemed to frighten him, and why shouldn’t it? How many times had he heard the sin of Sodom being railed against from the pulpit, from people he respected? How many times had he heard it said or inferred that the one being sodomized, penetrated, was weak in both body and will? How many times had he kept company with men who said wretched things about those who took their own sex to bed without knowing Hux’s proclivities? Kylo moved his fingers against him, circling carefully, ghosting his fingers over it and shushing him like an infant. He whispered that comforting white lie again, “It’s going to be alright.”

Kylo drew a hand back when he felt Hux’s body begin to slacken again. He retrieved the oil by his knee and let the glass lid clatter to the floor. The sound caused Hux to sit up, though not sharply as the scent of spring flowers filled the room. Kylo shushed him as he poured the oil over his fingers and looked up at the wary soldier. He smiled gently, “It’s oil, so I don’t hurt you dearest. Tonight is for your pleasure. You’ve had enough pain for several lifetimes.”

Hux did not seem to understand. He probably had no knowledge about how two men lay together. Kylo reached out and touched his fingers, slicking oil over them, “See? Oil. It doesn’t hurt.”

Hux still seemed confused, but he was clearly aroused, aching and needy for attention. He gave Kylo a slightly fretful look, making his apprehension known before settling onto his back again, his legs still lying open in invitation.

Kylo pressed his slick fingers to Hux’s entrance. He gently stroked over it, hearing gasps and whines from Hux. Slowly, as gently as he could, he pressed through the tight muscles inside the soldier. Hux cried out from fear, surprise and pleasure and Kylo groaned at the warmth and tightness of it. It had been a long time since he had opened someone for the first time and he had nearly forgotten the constricting heat he ought to have been expecting. His insides were as soft as the finest velvets. He shushed Hux gently, rubbing his thigh soothingly, trying to calm him as he pushed his finger in deeper, slowly beginning to stretch him.

Hux gasped and cried out. He seemed to be forming words, but Kylo could not understand him. He seemed to be making no move to get away or halt his movements, still passively allowing Kylo to continue finger him, so he could not have been shouting for it to stop.

_“Ta bron orm…dith orm…dith orm seo…le do thoil…”_

He broke off into light panting and groaning as Kylo slowly worked the finger in and out, circling, trying to get the other man loose and relaxed. He kissed his satiny thighs, marvelling that someone from such a rough profession could still have such softness. Sometimes he found little freckles and scars, kissing them fondly as Hux continued to cry out in his strange language before eventually calming and tapering off into breathy moans and gasps.

Once he had sufficiently stilled himself, Kylo pressed another finger inside. Hux shouted again, wordlessly this time, but almost immediately returned to insistent whines and hums. Kylo scissored his fingers open and closed, stretching Hux patiently as his body twitched and jerked at the sensations. Kylo probed and prodded inside him, searching for a place that would give him even more pleasure. He crooked his fingers towards Hux’s belly, groping not quite blindly for it. Finally he found the little bundle of nerves, his pleasure point, and Hux arched off the bed, his legs curling and squeezing so suddenly he nearly crushed Kylo between them. The Frenchman gave him a moment to register what he had felt, letting him gasp and pant as he looked about with wide, wild eyes.

 _“C-Cad a rinne tu…?”_ he gasped.

Kylo grinned and touched it again, wringing another sharp keen from the soldier. He had a beautiful voice and it had filled the room so completely that Kylo could not resist another long, firm touch that made him wriggle in pleasure and cry out so very sweetly.

Kylo pulled back to look at him. His determination and resignation were gone. His sorrow and shame had taken their respective leaves with them. All that was left was the moment, the sensations spurring him to say and do whatever it took to satisfy his body. He looked up at Kylo, desperate and let out an uneasy, “Seigneur…?”

It was not the first time he had been called that in the bedroom, mostly in jest or as part of a seductive game. With Hux it was more intimate, more literal. It defined the roles they had been born to play, the obedient soldier and his lord, as well as the name Hux had chosen to call him by. This was not a game for Hux, he meant the questioning exclamation earnestly. Kylo spread his legs, which proved impressively flexible, a little wider to further expose him and grant access for something more than a few fingers. Kylo rubbed his thighs and settled between them, taking in the lovely soldier before him once more. He wanted to savour him the way Hux had with the slight nibbles of chocolate moments earlier.

“I’m going to give you pleasure beyond your imagination,” Kylo purred, holding Hux’s legs apart firmly as he settled his face between them.

“Seigneur?” Hux called out in confusion.

Kylo pressed his lips just to the side of the slick and open passage, eliciting a scandalized gasp from Hux. He was good. He did not do this. He had no idea what was coming. Kylo kissed around his rim and massaged his legs, trying to will him to relax. Hux continued to let out confused, scandalized cries as he lightly thrusted his hips. “Seigneur! _C-Cad…Sin e mo…Is é sin salach_!”

“Shh…” Kylo whispered, blowing lightly on his entrance and earning a shiver and whine from Hux, “This will make you feel incredible.”

Kylo took in Hux’s musky scent and the flowery oil before slipping his tongue inside him. Hux whined and thrashed in response as Kylo continued to pleasure him, licking and prodding his slicked insides with his tongue and massaging the ring of muscle with his lips. Within seconds Hux had gone from frightened and appalled shouts to ecstatic, pleading moans and insistent whining. Kylo held him tightly by his thighs, keeping him still enough to continue worshiping him. Hux keened lightly, clenching warmly around Kylo’s tongue.

He continued to taste the soldier’s soft, warm passage, humming against it to send appreciative vibrations through his body. He was perfect and Kylo wanted to make sure he knew it. Kylo was thorough, systematic, taking care to fully lavish him with every attention. He was so good that Kylo wanted to consume him completely, and Hux, moaning pitifully and squirming in delighted agony, was doing nothing to dissuade his appetite.

He retracted his tongue and resumed kissing around his entrance before licking him again. Hux whined and panted on the bed, unable to speak, lost in pleasure. Kylo gave him more, swirling his tongue around before giving one last lap of his tongue against it. Hux moaned at the loss when he pulled away, working at his own breeches, which were becoming more restrictive by the second. When the soldier opened his eyes Kylo gestured to the pillow at the head of the bed, “Lie down over there.”

Hux looked at it and understood the command, moving slowly, lethargically to reposition himself. Even here and now after being touched and pleasured he seemed to feel the need to cling to dignity and modesty, raising a leg to hide himself from Kylo’s view. With a soft laugh Kylo gently pressed his leg down, “Don’t hide. Let me look. I want to see all of you my dear. You’re such a pretty little waif…”

Flushed from pleasure and some small vestige of shame that refused to let itself die, Hux lowered his leg, letting his body be bathed in orange light as Kylo let his eyes roam over it. He wished he had a way to preserve the moment forever. Hux’s lust filled, melancholic expression, the perfect whiteness of his nude form, the accents of pinks and reds in his hair, lips, nipples and freckles, and of course his loosened entrance and waiting cock. If Hux were not such a dutiful soldier he might have had an excellent career as an actor or model. Surely hundreds would flock to him for a chance to touch and witness such a delicate beauty.

Kylo picked up the vessel of oil and settled onto the bed, looking Hux over. He grinned and prodded his nipple gently, “Cute. Do you understand that word?”

“Cute?” Hux asked questioningly, drawing his hand to his other nipple and repeating, “Cute?”

Kylo shook his head lightly, “No, nipple. Your nipple. It’s very cute.”

Hux seemed confused, but Kylo grinned as he continued his lesson, “Nipple.” He moved his fingers to Hux’s forearms, “Freckle.” He moved to his mouth, “Lips.” He finally trailed his finger down to Hux’s belly, “Navel. They’re cute.”

Hux seemed to realize he was being paid a compliment, but his mouth screwed shut as he tried to stifle himself. He looked away and bucked his hips slightly against the air before quietly whispering, “Please…?”

Kylo leaned in and kissed his forehead chastely, “Of course…”

He coated his fingers in more oil. Hux had been loosened, but nowhere near enough. He would need to be stretched just a little further to accommodate him. He spread Hux’s legs again before filling him with one finger, then a second, listening to his contented, breathy moans and sighs. All thoughts of sin, an uncertain future and a futile past were far from him now. He slid a third finger inside him, making sure he had been prepared and nothing would hurt him. Not tonight.

“I think you’re ready,” said Kylo, moving back and coating himself liberally with lubricant. Hux lay back and seemed unable to help watching, his slender hand flying to his lips as his brow furrowed at the sight of Ren’s appendage. The Frenchman tried not to laugh, “It won’t hurt. I’ll be very sweet to you.”

He settled between his porcelain legs and lined himself up with Hux’s entrance. The Irishman shut his eyes, anticipating pain, “Seigneur! Wait…ki-kiss me…my neck…”

“Of course,” said Kylo, surprised a single kiss was all he had asked for all evening. He leaned forward and settled his lips against Hux’s neck, licking and nipping lightly, taking every possible care not to break or bruise the delicate skin. Hux sighed softly as Kylo reached down to guide himself to Hux’s entrance. He was not a complete novice at lovemaking it seemed. He had a notion that he would experience discomfort and wanted something comforting to distract him from it. Kylo kissed him as he gently, as slowly as he could, pressed inside.

Hux was wonderfully tight around him. The soldier cried out at the intrusion, tossing his head and whining, but making no indication he needed Kylo to pull out. Kylo lapped at the sweet hollow point in Hux’s neck, taking his time exploring it as he inched his way inside, letting his slender body adjust to the sensation. Kylo purred as he resisted the urge to brutally thrust into that perfect, tight heat, “You take me so well. You feel so perfect. Perhaps I was meant to find you. It’s like you were made to take me.”

Once he had entered enough to no longer require his hand, he reached up and pinched Hux’s nipple, rolling it as he continued to caress his beautiful neck and clavicle with his tongue. Hux whined at the invasion and gasped softly. Kylo watched him carefully, knowing he would need to rely more heavily on facial cues than usual and not wanting to miss a moment of his beautiful ecstasy. He waited until his brows unfurrowed and his forehead smoothed before cautiously, shallowly, giving a light thrust.

Hux’s eyes snapped open with a gasp and he moved his hips against Kylo’s, clearly wanting more. Kylo released his nipple, settling both hands on either side of that bright red hair before thrusting testingly into the lithe body beneath him. He gasped out his title prettily and sincerely, earning a moan from Kylo. He was so tight and good around him. He was the perfect size to take him. He thrust a little faster, deeper, watching the soldier mewl and keen in response. Kylo groaned at the sight and feel of him, eyes clouded by lust, fully losing himself in pleasure, calling out for him with that lovely voice. Shakily he felt trembling hands settle across his shoulder and the back of his head and pull him closer, trying to tuck him against the crook of his neck. His fingers stroked through his hair, short nails trailing lightly over his scalp before loosing the tie that kept his black locks in place. Despite his gasping and moaning, he turned his face to place sweet, soft kisses to Kylo’s cheek.

“You’re doing so well, you’re so sweet,” Kylo gasped out, thrusting shallowly, not wanting to hurt him. Not now when he was meekly doing all he could to reciprocate.

Hux mewled in response, bucking his hips, trying to get more as he ran his fingers through Kylo’s hair and held him close. It was too much, and the Frenchman began to feel himself losing control. He wanted more of the sweet soldier beneath him. Kylo thrust into him faster, trying to give him more pleasure. He re-angled his hips and Hux nearly screamed as Kylo hit his pleasure point again and again. Hux had completely lost his mind, squirming, crying out wildly with a bright blush across his cheeks. He pushed back as much as he could, gripping his shoulders tightly, clenching just right with a breathy ‘Seigneur’ on his lips between cries and moans.

Kylo could feel himself getting close to completion, but he wanted to make sure the pretty soldier was satisfied first. He kept thrusting into him, battering his pleasure point mercilessly as he licked and kissed his swanlike neck. Keeping one hand to support himself he moved the other between them, taking hold of Hux’s strained and dripping cock. The soldier cried out as he felt a hand wrapping itself around him and bucked his hips wildly, trying to get more contact. Kylo groaned and panted as Hux’s movements became wilder, almost relentless as he pursued his own pleasure.

Kylo stroked the shaft, pumping it eagerly before sealing his mouth over Hux’s to drink in all of his exquisite screams and cries. Hux was incredibly vocal, sending waves of sound through his lips in a way that excited Kylo’s blood. Slowly, between moans, he moved his mouth to clumsily try to kiss him back. The Irishman was a sloppy kisser it seemed, but it was hard to judge between one tearful kiss in a rattling carriage and another while he was in the middle of being ripped apart by pleasure. Perhaps, when he was in a better frame of mind and had more command over himself, he could kiss very sweetly.

Kylo pulled back and moaned against his lips, thrusting and stroking with his hand, “Come for me. God, I want to watch you come. Let me see how beautiful you are. You’re so tight, so perfect…”

Hux whined and moaned as his thrusting became more erratic. He whimpered and shuddered before giving a breathy, strangled cry of, ‘Kylo’ and came all over his stomach and the Frenchman’s hand. As he did his tight, slick passage spasmed and clenched deliciously. Kylo continued to pump him as he orgasmed, but his own thrusts soon became less controlled.

He thrust in as deep as he could and spilled inside Hux, filling him up. Hux gasped and whimpered at the sensation. Kylo thrust a few more times, making sure Hux took every drop as he gasped out something that may have been his own language or hazy nonsense as he collapsed, completely spent against the pillows.

Kylo panted as he looked over him, barely half conscious after being so well and thoroughly pleasured. He was much more relaxed, peaceful as he panted with exhaustion. Kylo took a moment to center himself, to rest, to take everything in before he slowly pulled out, his seed dribbling onto the sheets beneath them. He resisted the urge to lick Hux clean and reached haphazardly for his nightstand, pulling a cloth from the open drawer. He gently set to work wiping the mess off of Hux’s stomach and between his legs. Hux moaned softly, appreciatively Kylo imagined, as he lay still and allowed himself to be tended to.

When he was adequately cleaned Kylo tossed the cloth aside. Someone would pick it up later. He settled himself beside Hux, caressing him, kissing him softly, and praising him. He barely seemed to be awake as he settled himself against Kylo’s chest. Slowly his haze began to leave him and the world began to make its unwelcome return. The room, the splendid building and palace it belonged to, the carriage ride through Paris, waiting under the lamppost for some sort of salvation and only finding a devil to spirit him away into the dark.

As his senses returned Kylo prepared himself for any number of reactions. Denial that the whole thing had ever happened, whiting it out of his memory. Anger for letting this man take him in such an emotionally compromised state. Bartering with God, trying to plead that what he had done was not so great a sin as the Old Testament had written. Sorrow at the loss of his pride and dignity on top of everything else he had held so dear. Kylo had not expected him to bypass them all, coming to a sort of acceptance. Hux’s resigned, sad expression returned as tears pooled quietly in his eyes before falling in fat drops that rolled down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and allowed the tears to fall, keeping his breathing as steady as he could.

“You’re good,” Kylo assured him, stroking his short red hair as softly as he could, “Do you understand? You’re still good. Too good.”

Hux pressed his face close to Kylo’s chest and whispered, “ _Nilim…Le do thoil, nach breag_.”

“You are,” said Kylo, kissing the crown of his head. He could not understand what Hux was saying, but he wanted to make sure that Hux understood what had happened between them was not something he could be blamed for. He nuzzled against him, “You’re good and kind. You wanted to be loved…you deserve to be loved.”

Hux sighed, relenting, as he mumbled in broken French, “I said your name. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for that,” chided Kylo softly, kissing him again and whispering, “My dear Ceallachan.”

Hux stilled at that and buried his face in Kylo’s chest, trembling pitifully as he suppressed his sobs. Kylo stroked his hair and waited for him to calm himself. He hushed the soldier softly as he whispered his kind little lies. God would forgive him. He would see his homeland again. He would find happiness in his exile. He stroked Hux’s back as the embers of the fire began to fade to grey die out, casting the room into darkness.

Hux let out a soft whine as he let out a strangled sob, _“Go raibh maith agat…ta bron orm…ta bron orm…”_

“It’s alright, it’s alright…” assured Kylo. The man was physically and mentally exhausted. If crying gave him relief than he should take it. He must have stayed strong for so long for everything to come pouring out like this. How long? Since Limerick? Since the Boyne? It was a sad sight, a secret, private tragedy being acted out and his were the only eyes that would bear witness to it. He could not understand the words that were being spoken. Was he praying? Was he pleading for forgiveness?

Hux slowly quieted as firelight was replaced by the pale light of a sickly midwinter moon. His face was barely visible as he lifted his head, but Kylo could clearly make out his parted lips and wet, shining eyes. Kylo cupped his cheek as he wiped away the fresh layer of tears. He had needed this. He had needed to be taken apart so he could remake himself, fresh and new, to make sense of the world again. Perhaps he was realizing that now that there was nothing left for him to lose, lying naked in a stranger’s bed. There was nowhere lower for him to go so there was no choice but to rise back to his feet and move forward.

He moved to lie down and Kylo stopped him, “Wait, move a little, I’ll wrap this around you.”

Kylo pulled on the sheets, pinned fast to the bed under the weight of their bodies. Hux nodded his understanding and slowly moved. Kylo glimpsed him wincing slightly as he moved his legs. There was no avoiding the fact that Hux would be a little sore, just for a little while before his body returned to the untouched state it was more accustomed to. He had not bled though, and there would be no limping. Kylo hoped to himself that there would never be any limping or bleeding. He hoped foolishly, vainly that no blade or bullet would pierce his bright, glowing body in this war or any that would come.

Hux settled under the sheets and quilts, moving close to Kylo to steal the warmth he so desperately needed. Kylo let him take it as he covered him. Tonight he could be safe and loved. No war, no fighting, no kings or gods or treaties would exist for him tonight, Kylo would see to it. Tonight as he remade himself from the nothingness he had been reduced to he would be Ceallachan. The rest would come in time as he attempted to make sense of a world that seemed bound to insanity.

Kylo watched him as his breathing evened and his eyes became heavy. He stroked that dear, red hair and pale cheek, “Sleep. It’s alright. Rest now…”

Hux swallowed lightly before resting fully against the pillow with his little body pressed against Kylo’s. He was beautiful as his translucent lashes finally fluttered shut and he began to breathe deeply. When Kylo was confident that sleep had claimed him he pulled the Irishman’s body against his own and buried his face in the crook of his neck. He considered the tragedy that he was no longer a witness to, but entwined with. Would Hux look back on this night with bitter-sweetness, recalling the stranger who had taken him to his bed, or would he push it from his mind so often that in became nothing but a shameful shadow in his mind? Was he now as bound to the Irishman’s memories as the soldier was to Kylo’s? He doubted he would ever be able to forget the sweet soldier waiting under the lamp in the snow and the light.

“Rest now,” Kylo whispered and waited for sleep to overtake him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that period-typical homophobia tag? Yeah, it's strong in this part. I realize this is an issue that affects many people, so I want to give fair warning and also say that if you're religious and struggling to reconcile your beliefs and your identity: You are loved. 
> 
> As for the names of French nobles...I tried to find real historic figures who fit the bill but I just couldn't find any. So I took some names I saw in a textbook and just made things up :P

Kylo’s eyes opened and he was greeted by the sight of cropped red hair.  Slowly the events of the previous night began to put themselves in order and he recalled the man who lay against him.  Ceallachan, the sad, sweet little soldier who he had found near Saint Germain.  He stroked the red hair fondly as memories of their night of something that was not quite love came back to him, recalling soft, reluctant kisses and trembling fingers in his long hair, the tight heat, and sweet moans mixing languages with the unspoken tongue of passion.  They were beautiful memories, ones he was sure he would look back on fondly when old age had taken him, recalling the strange tragedy of the tearful Irish soldier who had been his lover on a snowy night so long ago. 

He was surprised to find Hux awake.  His eyes were dry, but they were dark and almost lifeless.  They were opened, but seemed to take in nothing.  He had not moved, and for a single, terrifying moment Kylo feared he had passed some time during the night.  Hux’s ocean coloured eyes flicked up at him, studied him, then he heaved a soft sigh and returned to his vacant stare.  Kylo was not sure what he had intended to do by looking at him, but he seemed to have achieved it as he quietly asked, “I should leave?” 

“I don’t want you to,” admitted Kylo, reaching up to stroke his cheek, “But your Commander and your fellows might miss you.” 

“Speak more slowly please, Seigneur” said Hux fluidly.  It must have been a phrase he used often.  

Kylo considered what to say.  A simple yes or no would be to blunt and not communicate nearly as much as he wanted to.  He did not want Hux to go.  If he could, he would have had him stay forever.  He briefly considered having Hux resign and become his live-in companion far from the stench of black powder and the lingering presence of death.  Even if the Irishman and his foolish pride could accept it, it would not take long for life to become difficult for him again.  His guilt would cripple him, with his bright hair and complexion would make him nothing but a curiosity to be gawked at.  He could stay, he would be safe, but he might never truly become happy here. 

“Do you have to go?” Kylo asked. 

“I do…” said Hux quietly against his chest. 

“Then I’ll have you taken back,” said Kylo reluctantly.  He tried to think of a way he could keep Hux with him and make him happy.  If there was some way he would have done it, but every time he envisioned a future for the two of them here it ended with the soldier miserable, pining for his home or at least his countrymen as he was kept for and at another man’s pleasure, a slave in everything but status.  The kinder thing was to let Hux go to whatever the future might hold for him.  It would be more dangerous, but he would have some sway over his own destiny.  It was better this way.  The memory was much sweeter if their time together ended that morning. 

Hux shifted, a slightly pained expression crossing his face as he seated himself.  He sighed at that, examining the stains on the sheets and the cloth that had been cast aside.  He looked them over resolutely, defiantly, as if daring them to judge him for what he had done.  Kylo stared up at him and felt compelled to rise as well.  It was his first time seeing the man in proper light and noticed features he had not before.  His eyes had slight bruises around them, signs of someone who usually slept poorly.  His eyes were a little greener than he had thought, and the veins running under his skin more prominent.  He traced a hand down the delicate line of his spine lovingly as Hux stared across the room and announced, “I conducted myself poorly.  Forgive me Seigneur.” 

“You were perfect,” Kylo promised him, “I couldn’t have hoped for a better companion.” 

“I…I don’t…” Hux trailed off, his brow furrowed, either searching for words or more excuses to chastise himself.  It seemed as if he would not be content unless someone said a cruel word to him, confirming that he was right to torture himself with mental presses and shackles. 

“You were perfect,” Kylo repeated, “And you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” 

Hux sighed at that, looking at Kylo’s face, “Your hair is long.  I thought it short.” 

“And yours is a mess,” said Kylo fondly, raking a hand through the short hair to smooth it down.  It had been ages since he had to deal with short hair that stuck out in all directions after a long night.  He smiled, “I have a comb.  Would you let me brush it?  It’s a fine colour.” 

Hux knit his brow in confusion and repeated, “Speak more slowly please, Seigneur.” 

“I want to,” Kylo began, pointed to himself.  “Brush,” he added, miming the action.  Running his fingers through Hux’s red tresses he concluded, “Your hair.” 

The soldier thought the request over and responded quickly, “I want to dress.  After, Seigneur?” 

“Of course,” said Kylo.  He gestured to the basin that sat on the night table, the drawer still gaping open, “But perhaps you would like to wash first?” 

Hux sighed through his nose as he looked over the room, then at Kylo, “Please don’t look at me Seigneur.” 

Kylo let out a sniff of laughter before countering, “It’s a little late for modesty now.” 

Hux may not have understood the words, but he could gather their meaning and did not take kindly to it.  He turned away from Kylo and pleaded more insistently, “Don’t look at me.” 

Kylo sighed at the request, “Alright…just a moment.” 

He turned and pulled the other cloth from the drawer and closed it quietly before pouring some water from the pitcher.  It would be chilly, there was really no helping that with the time of year being what it was.  He winced at the feel of frigid water on his hands before he rang it out, cursing quietly.  The splashing and quiet cursing caught Hux’s attention and caused him to look over his shoulder.  Kylo grinned and sighed slightly at that.  The soldier seemed completely unaware of how lovely he was, even in spite of his confused scowl. 

He tossed the cloth over to Hux, who caught it single-handedly with a snapping motion, the ends wrapping tightly around his slim wrist with the motion.  He winced slightly as a water droplet caught him in the eye, then set to work scrubbing his face roughly, turning the skin pink and almost raw with the fervent washing.  He drew it over his arms and chest rubbing himself until he growled at the sensation.  When he finished he held out the cloth without turning around.  Perhaps he knew that Kylo had not been able to obey his request.  The Irishman was far too lovely and curious to ignore. 

“You’re such a pretty sight to wake up to,” said Kylo, replacing the cloth in the basin and moving closer to run a hand down the curve of the soldier’s back.  He stiffened slightly at the contact and looked back at Kylo, as if deliberating whether he ought to move away or not.  The way he clutched the sheets to his body indicated that he did not want the gentle touches to go any further than this.  Last night had been the result of a choice he had made in desperation to escape his misery and he seemed to have no desire to have one last round of passion before they parted ways.  Kylo smiled fondly at him, “Your hair is like the red skies sailors take warning from before setting out to sea.  I’m still not convinced you’re entirely of this world.  With that lovely voice, perhaps you’re a little siren.” 

Hux stared back at him, eyes not quite as dead as they had been before but the way his lips pursed and quivered was enough to communicate for him.  He was not proud of what he had done.  He was sorry for it, and sorrier still for the fact that he had enjoyed it.  Regret was already starting to set in.  That was a shame.  Kylo had hoped that the soldier would give himself more than a few minute’s reprieve before his guilt swallowed him up again.  Kylo wished he had a better understanding of French or Latin so he could assure Hux that this was not so great a travesty as he seemed to think it to be.  Instead he sighed and shushed him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, trying to show him as best he could that nothing that had transpired between them had negated Hux’s capacity to be loved or admired. 

Kylo nuzzled against him, “May I dress you?” 

Hux considered the request before nervously replying, “Please…no, Seigneur.” 

Kylo kissed his cheek, “That’s a shame.”    

Kylo let go of the soldier and moved from beneath the blankets into the cold.  He turned and saw Hux’s shocked expression, seeing the Frenchman walking about nude as he continued to keep himself as hidden as he could.  Kylo grinned as he gathered up Hux’s clothes, his breeches, stockings, and shirt before tossing them to him.  Hux caught them with the same snapping one-handed catch he had used before.  He seemed to be quite coordinated.  Perhaps his slim build belied some sort of hidden strength.  Hux did not seem to know where to look, but eventually settled on Kylo’s face as the other man pointed to the quilt, “You can change under the blanket if you want.  Don’t you live with other men?  Shouldn’t you be used to this.” 

“It’s different,” Hux muttered quietly, bluntly, laying back to slip under the blankets with his clothes. 

Covering his mouth, Kylo watched with amusement as the soldier dressed himself underneath the blankets.  Interestingly, this did not seem to be his first time doing so.  He could not dress like this with his fellows.  Even in spite of his modesty, eventually he would have to become numb to the idea of dressing and undressing in front of his comrades in their shared quarters or tents.  Perhaps he had done it before for the sake of the cold.  That was understandable.  He could probably keep himself much warmer if he put on his clothes before stepping into the chilly morning air. 

Slowly the sheets were pulled back and Hux’s face was exposed along with his shoulders.  He looked up at the ceiling, once again lost in his thoughts as he covered his pink lips with his hand.  Kylo decided it was best to break his line of thoughts before they lead him back to any notions of sin or hell.  He spoke quickly, “Your hair…may I brush it now?  You did promise I could.” 

Hux pursed his lips slightly before nodding.  It had probably been ages since someone else had combed his hair for him.  Perhaps Hux was wondering what the point was, seeing as his hair was so short and could probably be worked back by a set of fingers with ease.  Kylo still opted to use a comb though.  He settled in behind the soldier and arranged his hair the way he had it the night before, taking his time and combing it until it shone a glossy red in the morning light.  It was a beautiful colour, very cool to the touch despite its fieriness and soft as any beaver pelt.  He loved the feel of it against his hand and under his fingers. 

Hux turned his head slowly, probably not wanting to startle Kylo or have him accidently brush the comb over his face.  He cocked his brow slightly, “Your hair is black.” 

“Is that rare in your country?” asked Kylo. 

“That black is,” said Hux, giving a slight nod in reply.  Kylo thought Hux might try to reach up and touch his hair, recalling how he had loosed it from its tie the night before, but he returned his hand to his lap almost as soon as he had raised it. 

“Do you want breakfast?  I’d hate to turn you out on an empty stomach,” said Kylo.    

Hux’s eyes flicked over to him, “No thank you Seigneur.” 

“You should eat,” Kylo insisted, “You need your strength.  You must still be a little tired.  At least take a glass of something.  In fact, I’m going to insist on that.” 

“Speak more slowly please, Seigneur,” said Hux, his brow furrowing slightly. 

“Drink,” said Kylo, miming the act of drinking from a glass before saying very slowly, “I am going to give you a drink.  Don’t say no.” 

Hux seemed slightly taken aback by that, but soon returned to his contemplative stare, gazing out the window.  It had stopped snowing, but the sky had a typical winter greyness to it.  A little bird was singing somewhere in the distance.  Kylo left Hux to listen to its song as he began to dress himself.  He also wondered what possible token he should leave with the sad, sweet soldier.  Breakfast and a glass of water seemed a paltry recompense for allowing Kylo to have a part in his living passion play.  He ought to have some token, and perhaps when he had a mind to accept the necessity of his action, he could look back on the memory of his night in the arms of a French nobleman with some small amount of fondness. 

It could not be anything extravagant.  The last thing Kylo wanted to do was give the Irishman the impression that his body was being paid for like a common gutter whore.  They would have to be practical things.  He needed gloves, surely Kylo had a pair that he could stand to part with.  Perhaps a scarf as well to keep him warm if he felt the need to take a long walk into the cold and darkness again.  Kylo considered just the ones put on some fresh clothing from his wardrobe.  There were a pair of gloves that had become slightly worn and a scarf from last winter that had fallen out of fashion.  They were things he could stand to part with and ones that the soldier would be able to tell were being given as a gift, not as a sort of payment.  Kylo took them and set them aside, pleased with his selection. 

He rang for a servant to send for breakfast.  No coffee this time.  He did not want Hux to drink anything he did not have a particular liking for.  He requested a simple meal, hot chocolate, orange juice, and sweet breads with plenty of butter and jam.  The Irishman had refused breakfast, but perhaps if he smelled something warm and fresh he would change his mind. 

Hux, for his part, sat on the bed and stared listlessly at the stains.  He seemed ashamed of them, but there was acceptance on his countenance as well.  He was not denying what had happened between them, and if he had tears to shed over the act he kept them to himself.  Kylo hoped his mind was not on the possibility of damnation.  If he felt so terribly about what had transpired he could confess it away in a solitary box to a holy man behind a screen.  This act, this moment one moment of weakness did not sentence him to hell.  Kylo refused to believe it could.  If there was a God, and if he was good, surely he would understand and would be willing to pardon this wretched little soul the sin of wanting a moment’s comfort.  If God would be so cruel as to turn his back on one who had given so much for his sake, Kylo wanted no part in his worship.    

Hux squeezed the sheets beneath him before releasing them, refusing to look at the stains any longer.  He crossed the room and sat in the chair he had occupied the night before and began to fix his boots and galoshes.  Kylo watched him pull them on and button them in place.  They were well worn, but carefully kept.  They must have carried the soldier from Ireland to France and then to Flemmish fields and German battles. 

The soldier paused and touched the arm of the chair where his medals and cross lay.  He raised a hand to take them, but stopped and left it hovering a good distance away from them.  He furrowed his brow and began to lower his hand, looking at the floor in shame.  Kylo stared and wondered if his heart might break at the sight.  He strode to Hux quickly and knelt before him, “No.  Don’t think you’re unworthy of them.  You’re still good.  I promise you are.” 

Hux shook his head slightly and held his hands in his lap.  Kylo tilted his face upwards to face him, “You’re a good man.  An honest man.  That hasn’t changed.” 

Hux pulled back and shook his head again.  Kylo snatched up the scapular and arranged it in his hands, “You need this.  You need it so you can be brought straight to heaven.  Wasn’t that what Our Lady promised?  If you trust her she will intercede for you.” 

“I can’t,” said Hux quietly. 

“Yes you can!” insisted Kylo, almost angrily.  Before Hux could act he forced the scapular over his head.  Hux looked up with some alarm before Kylo sighed and arranged it more gently over his chest and nape.  He traced the pendants with his fingers lightly, “You can…you’re still good.  Perhaps the truest man I’ve ever met.” 

Kylo picked up the cross and the medal.  He noticed in the light just how worn the leather rope had been.  The places where the knots had kept it from exposure revealed that it had been a much lighter colour when it was new.  How long had he worn it?  Was this the first time in who knew how many years the Irishman had removed it?  Trying to spare his ever watchful God and the angels the sight of the foul deed he had committed?  Not wanting the purity of his saints marred by his sin? 

“This one too,” insisted Kylo, holding them out for Hux to take, “You need Saint Michael to protect you.  He takes special care of soldiers.  You need it.  Take it.” 

Hux took it by the cord and looked over with tears pooling in his eyes once again.  He began to curl in on himself, clutching and pressing it to his forehead as he began weeping again, _“Ta bron orm…ta bron orm…”_

Kylo reached up, trying to thumb away his tears.  He had known this would happen.  He knew that the moment’s ecstasy and pleasure would fade, displaced by regret and guilt.  He had not expected that it would affect him so much.  He had observed the one-man tragedy being played out before him, but now he was entwined in it.  He was irrevocably a part of that sad story now.  Perhaps that was why he was becoming so passionate now.  He was beginning to feel a fraction of the soldier’s pain and was finding it to be unbearable.  He had lost his home, his family, his cause and now he truly believed he had lost his final salvation.  Bartering away eternity for a moment’s repose. 

“You’re good,” said Kylo, feeling his throat constricting as he tried to dry the soldier’s tears and stroked his hair to soothe him, “They know how good you’ve been.  They know how you’ve suffered.  They won’t begrudge you this, I promise.” 

If only he could have been certain of that. 

When Hux had stopped his indecipherable lamentation Kylo took the necklace back, Hux still refusing to take it.  He stood and noticed that the servant, probably having knocked had let himself in, standing with the breakfast tray by the door, his mouth parted as he looked on in stunned silence.  He was unappalled, but the sight of a nobleman caring for this clearly distraught stranger was likely more than enough to startle him.  Kylo looked up at the servant and narrowed his eyes slightly, “You saw nothing.” 

“O-of course, Monsieur,” he stammered out, “But, begging Monsieur’s pardon…is he ill?  If it pleases, shall I send for the surgeon to examine him?” 

To cut his wrists and bleed him until the hysteria subsided?  No.  Hux would very likely have his blood shed soon enough.  There was no need for a surgeon to assist him with that.  Kylo sighed, “No, I’ll care for him myself.  You will not breathe a word of what you saw to anyone, have I made myself clear?” 

The servant stood with his mouth gaping slightly before hesitantly replying, “Yes, Monsieur.” 

“Good,” said Kylo, his relief showing unabashed in his tone, “Leave that, take the other one with you when you go.” 

The servant hesitantly approached the table and Hux by extension.  He seemed unable to look away from the quietly weeping man, occasionally muttering to himself in a foreign tongue.  He carefully took the tray from last night away as he laid out the fresh one.  He looked at Hux, probably trying to piece together what had happened.  Hux was clearly not a nobleman.  That much could be gleamed from his clothing and posture, and prostitutes did not wear red military coats.  The servant’s expression was not one of judgement, but concern and confusion.  He might have been wondering how this man had come to the eccentric nobleman’s chambers and what caused him to cry so passionately. 

Hux seemed to notice he was being watched and redoubled his efforts to calm himself.  He sat up straight, his eyes and cheeks red from crying and did what he could to make himself seem proud and imposing.  His eyes fixed themselves into what seemed to be a well-practiced glare as his chest heaved unevenly, trying to catch his breath.  The servant looked him over, glancing at the red and green jacket, the red hair and fair eyes.  He seemed to become a bit more unnerved by that.  The Irish reputation for being unpredictable and unstable seemed to have spread to all classes.  Hux met the servant’s gaze and spoke in something that sounded inhumanly close to a growl, “May I help you?” 

“No, monsieur,” said the servant quickly, stepping back as fast as he could when he caught sight of the soldier’s hand hovering over his knife. 

It seemed Kylo would not have to pay this man off.  The threat of being hunted down and gutted by a mad Irishman would be deterrent enough.  Kylo watched the man bow before making an exit and Hux’s expression immediately softened.  He sighed quietly to himself and released his knife, returning to his listless melancholic staring. 

Kylo approached him again, standing behind him and circled the leather rope around his neck.  He quietly tied it before running a thumb over Hux’s delicate, white nape.  He scolded him quietly, slightly amused, “That was not very nice.” 

“I’m not a gentle man,” replied Hux, almost immediately. 

“I don’t think so,” replied Kylo, stepping around to take his own seat again, “You’ve been very sweet.” 

“No,” said Hux, wiping some itching, hot tears from his cheek, “You are kind.” 

Kylo was slightly taken aback by that.  He was kind?  He had wanted to help the Irishman, but he had his own reasons.  His intention when he left his lodgings the night before had been to find someone to warm his bed, not to venture out and look for lost souls in need of rescue.  His thoughts when he first saw the Irishman were of how beautiful he would seem in his arms.  Even when he had considered his losses, he had done so with entertainment, amusement, watching the events play out and expecting to return to his life with an extra notch in his belt and a strange story to tell. 

Hux looked over at Kylo, wiping the corner of his eye with his palm as he spoke as smoothly as his nerves and limited language would permit.  He furrowed his brow and managed what he could, “Esurivi enim et dedistis…mihi…mihi mandu…manducare siviti et dedistis…mihi bibere…ho- hospes eram et…et…” 

“Collexistis me,” Kylo finished incredulously.  He knew the passage well enough.  ‘I was hungry and you gave me something to eat.  I was thirst and you gave me something to drink.  I was a stranger and you invited me in.’ 

Hux gave his face one last wipe with his bare hand before he concluded, “Seigneur is very kind.” 

Kylo pursed his lips and felt no small measure of guilt overtake him.  Was that how Hux saw this?  An act of charity?  Of selflessness?  It had been anything but that.  He had brought the soldier back with the sole intention of making love to him.  He had listened to his story for the novelty of it.  Everything he had done had been for his own pleasure, with the benefit it gave Hux being secondary.  And yet, Hux did not see him that way.  He saw a man who had offered him escape, a shoulder to cry on, a warm room to sleep in, and some small sustenance.  He had not acted out of charity at all, and it had hardly been a gesture of Christian brotherhood. 

Hux waited quietly in his chair.  He seemed to be waiting for something.  Kylo recalled how last night Hux had not touched the coffee or chocolate until Kylo had taken something first.  Kylo reached over and the soldier looked at him with some surprise.  The Frenchman was not sure what had caused him to do that until Hux touched his fingers to his forehead and looked at him slightly incredulously. 

“Oh, you want to pray first,” said Kylo with realization.  He ought to have expected that.  He quickly crossed himself and clasped his hands together as Hux continued to watch him expectantly.  The Irishman clearly expected, as the host, Kylo would be the one to pray over their meal.  Kylo sighed at the thought.  A pair of sodomites thanking God for a meal after they had just sinned against him so completely.  And yet, Hux probably would not touch a scrap of what lay before him unless Kylo led the pair of them in prayer.  He muttered out a quick prayer of thanksgiving before crossing himself carelessly again. 

Kylo sighed slightly as he pressed his hot chocolate to his lips, “In your regiment you must be the fun one…I suppose you always make sure your comrades say their prayers and scrub behind their ears.” 

Hux had not heard the sarcastic remark or dismissed it.  He looked at the hot chocolate curiously before smoothly asking, “It’s not coffee?” 

“It’s chocolate with milk.  You remember chocolate from last night,” said Kylo. 

Hux continued to examine the food before him.  He seemed to be familiar with sweet breads, jam and butter, but the hot chocolate and orange juice caused his brow to furrow slightly.  Kylo pointed to the juice, “It’s from oranges.  Do you understand orange?” 

Hux arched his brow slightly contemptuously before he said, “I understand Orange very well Seigneur.” 

It took Kylo a moment before he recalled William III, the king who had defeated Hux’s and exiled him from Ireland, was also known as William of Orange.  Kylo’s eyes widened slightly before he reached for the glass, “You don’t have to drink that if you don’t want to…” 

“Oh, _this_ orange,” said Hux, touching his mouth with surprise.  It seemed his first association with the word came from his enemies, not the colour or fruit.  He sheepishly added, “I understand.  I’ve never eaten an orange.” 

Kylo sighed, grateful his innocent, if ignorant gesture had not reopened any wounds, “Never?” 

“Never.  Too expensive,” explained Hux bluntly. 

“Then you should try it,” said Kylo warmly. 

Hux raised the glass to his lips and took a small sip.  He let out what must have been an involuntary, pleased hum at the taste before taking a larger drink.  Kylo smiled slightly.  He never thought a glass of juice could give someone such pleasure.  If he had not already set aside his gifts for Hux, he would have lined his pockets with sweets and oranges before he left.  He knew as much as he wanted to, he would not be able to give Hux too much.  If he did, it might make the proud Irishman ashamed to accept so much charity.  Perhaps one or two oranges though.  One for himself and one for a friend.  Besides, if he returned to his lodgings with too many gifts, it would look more than a little suspicious.

“It’s good?” asked Kylo, seeing that Hux drained half the glass, “I’ve heard that it helps keep scurvy at bay.  It’s a constant concern for settlers in our North American colonies.” 

“It’s very good,” said Hux, marvelling at the glass. 

It seemed he had been sufficiently distracted, so Kylo attempted to keep up the light conversation, “In Ireland, what do you eat for breakfast.” 

Hux fixed his brow in concentration as he searched for words, “Bacon.  Egg.  Sausage.  Bread.  Potato.  Bean.” 

“All of that?” asked Kylo incredulously. 

“Sometimes,” replied Hux with a slight shrug. 

Kylo briefly wondered what all that meat in the morning must do to a person’s digestion, but it was probably something that Hux missed very dearly.  He was calmer now, much calmer, but Kylo still could not shake the guilt that Hux’s words had inflicted upon him.  Perhaps he only quoted the verse to make himself understood.  Perhaps he did not have adequate French to say that he was grateful for the food and drink and shelter, so he made himself understood with what resources were available to him.  Kylo was unsettled by the idea that Hux thought he had brought him home out of a sense of charity.  He had to have known that was the case with the way Kylo had lavished kisses on him and cooed sweet terms of endearment at him. 

Kylo decided that must have been it.  Hux was grateful for the food and shelter and the verses were all he could say to communicate that.  In terms of single-night affairs, Kylo tried to be decent and polite, but that was hardly kindness.  If he had truly been kind he would have let the Irishman cry out his troubles in his arms and done nothing more.  Would Hux have allowed that though?  The night before he had looked at Kylo with fixed determination, steeling himself with resolve after having made up his mind that he would destroy himself, and he would do it in Kylo’s bed.  If Kylo had denied him that, would Hux have been able to accept it? 

Perhaps, perhaps not, he would probably never know.  Kylo spooned some jam onto his bread as he considered Hux again.  He was as lovely in the light as he had been in the dark.  There was something childlike about him as he tasted the food set before him, probably never having had anything so rich in his life and looking over it all curiously.  He looked awfully young with his slim build, clean-shaven face and the way his hair fell over his forehead.  They seemed about the same age, perhaps one or two years difference between them, but they seemed to be worlds apart.  Hux was devout, loyal, melancholic and determined, while Kylo thought himself very frivolous and foolish by comparison. 

“Do you understand what beautiful means?” Kylo asked pensively, “How much of what I said to you can you comprehend?” 

Hux paused, moving his hands into his lap.  His cheeks pinked slightly, though it did not seem to be from shame or a fresh round of tears.  Hux wiped his lips with his hand before carefully answering, “I understand beautiful…” 

“I just…can’t stand the thought of you leaving without knowing how precious you are,” admitted Kylo. 

Hux shook his head slightly, “I think you’re…how you say…making it bigger.” 

“Making it…exaggerating?  Is that what you’re trying to say?” asked Kylo, gesturing the word. 

“Yes, I think you’re exaggerating, Seigneur,” replied Hux with a slight, sad smile, “And you like talking.” 

He was not wrong, and while Kylo may have been heaping his praises on thickly, he had never once thought Hux was undeserving of them.  He was a rare sort of beauty, rustic, yet fair, bright, yet tragic.  Even now when the soldier seemed to be trying to chastise his flowery language, there was something compelling about him.  He had lost everything, his future would be full of pain, and he still tried to pray and smile and jest in spite of it all.  Perhaps that was all he could do. 

“Yes, I like talking,” admitted Kylo, finishing off his hot chocolate, “And I like you.” 

Hux stilled slightly at that and looked Kylo over.  He watched him carefully with his tired blue-green eyes and said, “I can’t stay.” 

“I know,” said Kylo, relenting with a slight sigh.  He had not expected the words to shoot pain through his heart like that, but it was the truth.  Hux could not stay.  His conscience would never allow for it, he would miss his comrades, and he would be reduced to nothing but an exotic curiosity; Lord Kylo Ren’s Irish manservant with poor French and absurdly red hair.  That was no life for him.  The army was a poor substitute, but it was the one Hux had chosen for himself, and he seemed to want to return to it.  Kylo had hoped that perhaps, if the question had been brought up Hux might have said he would like to stay, but as he had proved when he had pressed his knife to Kylo’s ribs on the bridge, he preferred his honour to his life. 

“You’re wasted on the army,” said Kylo, rising to his feet, “You’re far too pretty for marching.” 

He returned to the wardrobe and retrieved the gifts he had chosen for Hux.  The soldier had risen and was fixing his jacket and belts as well as tying his cravat in the sloppy Steinkirk style.  He looked better than he had before.  He was still a morose little figure, but he seemed less likely to be crushed under the weight of his troubles.  Kylo approached him and held out a pair of brown gloves, “You need a pair.  I hope you’ll accept them.” 

Hux looked at him with wide eyes, clearly taken aback by that.  He was not upset by the gesture though, that was good.  He raised his hand and wrapped his hand around them, as if he were afraid his touch would make them dissolve into nothingness.  Seeing his hands next to them Kylo knew they would be far too large to fit him properly, but they could be adjusted, and until then they could still keep his slender, white fingers warm. 

Kylo smiled fondly and wrapped the old, light blue scarf around his neck.  Hux stared at it in shock and Kylo laughed slightly, “If you’re going to go about with that poorly tied cravat you’ll need this too.  You’ll catch your death if you leave your neck exposed.” 

Hux pulled back slightly, fingering the scarf with his free hand.  He looked it over before getting a determined glint in his eyes and began to rifle through the purse on his belt.  It was Kylo’s turn to be surprised again.  Of all the reactions he had expected he had not thought Hux might try to repay him.  He held out a hand to try to stop him, to tell them there was no need for the soldier to give him anything.  Before he could protest Hux held up a handkerchief.  He had spent all that time crying and had not used it? 

Kylo looked down at the folded piece of linen being held out to him.  There was exquisite lacework around the border, and in the corner, little green flowers and the soldier’s monogram, C. M. H. had been embroidered into it.  The stitches were not ones that Kylo recognized, and neither were the flowers, but they seemed to have been made with a careful, steady hand.  Kylo furrowed his brow and shook his head.  The stitching had probably been done by his mother or sweetheart, perhaps a sister.  He could not accept it.  This may have been one of the last tokens Hux had to remember his home and family by.  He could not take it from him. 

“No…you keep that,” said Kylo quietly, pushing Hux’s outstretched hand back towards him, “I can’t take that from you.  It’s too precious.” 

Hux was undeterred and held it out for him again.  Kylo pushed it back towards him once more, “I can’t accept that.  That’s yours.  I won’t take it.” 

Hux narrowed his eyes slightly and untied the scarf from his neck, passing it back to Kylo.  His message was clear.  If Kylo would not accept the handkerchief, than he would not take his scarf.  If he had known the Irishman would be compelled to reciprocate any gift he was given, or that he would offer something so dear to him in return, Kylo never would have attempted to give him anything. 

“This doesn’t feel right…” said Kylo quietly, taking the handkerchief from his hand.  He looked over the stitches, the flowers and lettering, the handmade lace.  A female relation of Hux’s must have made it specially with him in mind the whole time they laboured on it.  Kylo hoped he had a spare somewhere, that this was one of a set.  Surely Hux would not have given it away so freely if it was irreplaceable.  It had to be one of a set.  Kylo hoped that somewhere in his purse or in his lodgings Hux had two or three more of them to spare.  

As he considered this, Hux replaced the scarf and tapped his finger over the embroidered M, “Micheál.  In French you say it different.” 

“Your name is Michael?” asked Kylo considering.  He recalled the way Hux had started when he heard the name the night before.  Perhaps he had been less concerned over the saint and more by the fact that some stranger might have guessed his middle name.  Perhaps it had been both.  Kylo smiled softly, “You really are a great and brilliant Saint Michael.” 

Hux seemed to ignore the comment as he pulled out his knife.  Just when Kylo thought the soldier might try to make a gift of that as well, he pinched a red lock of hair between his finger and thumb and sliced it off with a quick, fluid flick of his wrist.  He held it up the way he had the handkerchief.  Kylo opened his mouth to protest, but Hux replaced his knife and reached for the gloves he had been given.  It seemed Irishmen were dear, stubborn little creatures who gave more freely and generously than Kylo had anticipated.  He took the lock of hair.  He liked it far more than the handkerchief and felt considerably less guilty taking it from Hux’s waiting fingers.  He looked it over, smiling slightly, “I’ll have a locket made for it and keep it with me always.” 

Hux gave a quiet huff of laughter at that.  He probably did not believe that Kylo would do it.  The Frenchman felt he had to out of necessity though.  It was such a short lock of hair.  If he did not find a proper way to contain it, he would lose it, and he wanted to treasure it at least for a little while. 

Kylo went to his night table and reverently laid out the precious little gifts.  To anyone else they would be such small, worthless things.  A chunk of hair and crude piece of cloth.  But knowing their story, who had made them, who had given them, the one night that they had spent together, they became as precious to Kylo as if Hux had given him gold or silver.  He looked at the handkerchief and once again hoped Hux had at least one spare.  He hated to think it had been made by the soldier’s sweetheart, Grainne, and now he had nothing to remember her by. 

“You’re too good,” said Kylo softly as he crossed the room, “Too sweet…” 

Hux gave a slight shrug at that before he followed Kylo out of the room. 

 

*** 

 

Kylo had given Hux a pair of oranges, and to his shock and Dameron’s amusement, he gave one of them to the horse.  Kylo stared in stunned disbelief as Hux took the precious fruit, one he might never get to taste again, walked over to Bébé and held it out on his palm.  Dameron snorted slightly before grinning at his master, “Oh, I like this one.”

Kylo took the spare orange in Hux’s pocket as a sign that perhaps he at least kept some nice things for himself and was not too generous with things that were so rare and precious.  He looked over the soldier and the horse, and despite the sad glint in his eye, Hux seemed to be in a much better frame of mind than he had been before.  He hoped that Hux would return to his comrades slightly less broken.  He hoped he would try to be safe and take care of himself as best he could.  He hoped that perhaps he might find something in this country that might make him happy, and if not, something that would at least sustain him.  He was so good, and he had lost so much.  Kylo desperately wanted him to find a more permanent happiness. 

“Where should I take him?” asked Dameron. 

“Somewhere close to Saint Germain, somewhere discreet,” instructed Kylo. 

“I know a good spot,” replied Dameron.  He looked up at Kylo pensively, “You could come with us, just to see him off.” 

Kylo shook his head, “I’d never let him out of the carriage.” 

“That good, huh?” asked the coachman. 

Kylo pursed his lips slightly and did not answer the question.  That word seemed to carry a new meaning for him now.  Instead he called over to Hux, “Come here a moment, let me give you a proper goodbye.” 

Hux glanced up from the horse and Kylo waved him over.  He obediently approached, footsteps packing down the snow under his heavy boots.  Kylo gathered him into his arms and squeezed him tightly.  He ran his fingers through that short red hair and kissed the sweet, sad soldier on the cheek, “You’re good.  You’re still good.  Please believe that.” 

“And you are kind, Seigneur,” replied Hux. 

He pulled back.  Kylo did not want to let him go, but he did.  Hux’s warm body slipped away from his and out into the cold.  Kylo immediately missed his warmth, his brightness and crossed his arms over his chest to try to retain some small trace of it.  Dameron held the carriage door open for Hux and Kylo watched him climb inside.  He looked back, his sad eyes shining as he forced a smile.  Kylo tried to convince himself that the soldier would be alright, that he would live, all of the little white lies he had used to reassure Hux before.  He forced himself to believe them as Dameron shut the carriage door. 

He would be alright. 

 

   ***  

 

In the hours that followed Kylo dried the few tears he had shed at their parting.  It had been bitter-sweet, so wonderful and precious that it hurt.  It was the first time such a temporary lover had inflicted such pain upon him.  He supposed that it was bound to happen.  The soldier had been such a sad, lonely figure, it would have been impossible to spend those precious few hours with him and remain unmoved by all he had heard and witnessed.  He would have had to have had a heart made out of stone if he had felt nothing at the thought of losing him. 

But it had to be this way.  Hux would not have lasted if he had stayed, and if he did he would not have been happy.  He belonged with his own, with his fellows and their collective madness.  He belonged in high cathedrals with their vaulting roofs and saints, praying over his troubles and hoping for deliverance.  He belonged in his martyr’s martial red with his firelock on his shoulder and a knife in his hand.  He belonged in a place where he might avenge his kin upon the enemy that had taken them from him.  He belonged somewhere where he could feel proud and whole again.  He would find none of that if he stayed at Versailles. 

It took some time for Kylo to convince himself that he had been right to let Hux go free into a cruel and ignorant world that would misjudge and abuse him.  He spent a long time contemplating the lock of hair and lace handkerchief.  They ought to have been like any other tokens a lover had left with him.  Trophies to show off as he told the tale of the sad Irish soldier who had loved him for a night.  Little souvenirs that he could look on fondly when he became older and sigh wistfully over that strange and passionate night.  They were never supposed to mean so much to him.  None of the others ever had. 

Kylo knew he would be hard pressed to push Hux from his mind in the days that followed.  It would be impossible, he doubted any man could have done it.  If anyone else had heard his story, the heart-rending cries that would never be understood, seen his desperate determination, the way he had clutched his cross and medal to his forehead, convinced he was no longer fit to wear them, surely they could not have forgotten him.  Kylo continued to observe all of the events that required his presence, but his mind was elsewhere.  As he sat in galleries listening to ladies and countesses recite the silly little love songs their tutors had so diligently taught them and looked at the paintings about him, taking in none of the sound.  He imagined Hux painted in the green Flemmish landscape, looking out over the field with those sad, tired eyes with his gun on his shoulder.  He imagined his short hair being blown lightly in a warm spring breeze and the sun warming his alabaster face as he scanned over the wide, open fields before him. 

He imagined Hux and found he could not recall the particular patterning of the dusting of freckles on his forearms.  He wished he had had more time with Hux.  He would have had a small cameo of him painted so he could always recall the colour of his eyes and the red of his hair.  He wondered where Hux was now.  There was not much for soldiers to do during winter retirement.  Were he and his fellows preparing for Christmas together?  Was he walking about, trying to practice his French with anyone who might spare him some time and a word?  He might have been at prayer, repenting or asking if God might care for him through his time of trial, if he felt worthy enough to do so.  Kylo hoped that Hux felt himself worthy of God’s mercy again.  Perhaps the Irishman was listening to a song as well, in a church or sung by one of his mates.  Kylo sighed.  He ought to have asked Hux to sing for him.  Something as sweet as he was.  He would have much rather listened to any common song from Hux’s lips than sit in this room listening to ladies sing and wait to be praised for the scant progress they had made. 

When the recital was over someone, he could not recall who, called out, “Do you have a song you would like to request, Lord Ren?  You seem very listless.” 

“Something Irish,” he replied, looking at the painting of the fields. 

“Irish?” the man, the harpsichordist echoed in confusion. 

“Yes, do you know any Irish songs?  Something sad and sweet,” said Kylo. 

“I know some English songs…Purcell, Doland…” the man faltered. 

“Those won’t do, he’d hate those,” Kylo muttered to himself.  He tried to recall exactly what Hux had said when asked if he could speak English.  He had only said it once, and he had said it quickly in his own tongue, so Kylo could only recall the lyrical way he had said it.  His language seemed as fit for singing as German or Italian. 

“Oh, perhaps he would like to hear something by Pachelbel,” one of the ladies suggested, “He has written some very beautiful pieces.” 

“Really, Lord Ren,” scoffed one of his peers, “Something Irish?  They’re all quite mad you know.  Without politic law, or civil government, neither embracing religion-” 

“They’re our allies,” said Kylo darkly, cutting him off before he could say another word.  If he had known Hux for a scant five seconds he would have retracted his statement.  Hux was anything but godless.  He looked at the man, Saxe, and narrowed his eyes.  He didn’t know.  How could he.  Kylo regarded him levelly, “Have you met any of them?  Spoken with them?” 

“I heard their Commander use that guttural tongue,” noted Saxe.  There were a few stifled scoffs and laughs at that.  Kylo failed to see anything foul about Hux’s language.  It had sounded vaguely Germanic, certainly not having any roots in Latin.  It had a mysterious quality to it, even when it was brokenly sobbed out while the speaker’s heart was wrung dry. 

“The one I spoke with was not mad.  He was a dear little creature,” said Kylo, fingering at his pocket where Hux’s handkerchief rested.  He dared not part with it, not for a moment.  Not just yet. 

“You spoke to one of them?” asked one of the ladies, “Was it Sarsfield?  Dillon?” 

It seemed his opportunity for boasting had presented itself.  There were ladies present, so he would not be able to impart all the details.  However, now that his moment had come, his time to divulge the sinful details of his encounter and to share the strange and beautiful encounter he had with Hux, he did not want to.  For a moment, he felt the man’s presence and his sorrow.  He had shared something so intimate with Kylo, allowing himself to be seen and touched when he had become so fragile.  There was something beautiful, almost sacred about Hux.  Although it was brief, Kylo thought for a moment he might close the conversation, end it there and then so as not to sully Hux’s memory with bawdy stories and lewd boasting. 

But that was why he had brought Hux to his bed.  He was another notch in his belt.  Another exotic lover, just like the rest.  His crude little tokens were meant to be tucked away with the rest and brought out to show off upon request.  That was the way it had always been, and despite a slight waver in his conscience, Kylo thought with some hesitancy that it would always be that way. 

“No, an infantryman.  I chanced to pass him in the streets near Saint Germain,” explained Kylo.  He shifted himself slightly so he was more upright, in a better posture to tell his story, “He was a sad sight to look at.  Lost and alone, wandering about without aim or purpose.  The poor thing had forgotten his hat and gloves.  I spied him standing under a lamppost with snow streaked through his hair and clinging to his clothes.” 

“How odd…” mused de Bourbon, one of the King’s legitimized bastards.  A lady in title only who was rumoured to be nearly as loose with her proclivities as Kylo was.  Their competition for the most lovers was a poorly kept secret and they made a poorer pair.  The bastard and the merchant’s son.  The way she smiled at the story made Kylo uneasy though.  Hux was supposed to be another encounter, a name in a long list of affairs, a story to be told as Kylo was telling it now.  It did not feel that way though.  The whole experience was quickly becoming unsettling with the lusty grin the lady shot him.  The thought of her looking at Hux, who was so pure in his simple desire for love and renewal gave pause to the blood flowing in his veins.  She continued, a mocking imitation of pity in her voice as she asked, “Poor little lamb.  Was he a handsome creature?  I expect he must have been to catch your eye.” 

She clearly wanted details, and Kylo was finding himself more and more loathe to give them.  Not like this.  Flaunting Hux for the arousal of others was like unveiling a relic for blasphemers determined to desecrate it.  Yet, he had started this, and the woman who was pressing him was above his station.  He was obliged to continue.  He did so as vaguely as he could. 

“He was a pretty thing, a redhead with cropped hair.  His eyes were caught somewhere between blue and green.  He had a very full mouth and bright lips.  His pallor was…” Kylo trailed off, recalling the feint blue lines running under Hux’s translucent skin.  He willed himself to continue, “He was deathly pale.  I could see his blood running under his skin.” 

“But what was he doing wandering about in midwinter without a hat or gloves?” one of the younger ladies wanted to know.  To her credit, the description likely did little to convince anyone that Hux had not been mad. 

“He was sad, you see,” explained Kylo, “He was a very long way from home, exiled, and the war had taken his family.”  Kylo paused, wondering for a moment.  Was Grainne Hux’s wife or sweetheart?  He had never explained properly.  He knew which made the better story in his mind though, “And his pretty young wife.  He was very much alone.  He had lost heart and thought he might find it again if he wandered in the cold and the dark.” 

“And then you _spoke_ with him,” said Lady Bourbon, emphasizing the word to make it clear she did not mean to ask if they had exchanged pleasantries.  It seemed clear to most everyone in the room as well, except a few of the younger ladies, whose parents were trying and now evidentially failing to keep them naïve and innocent. 

“I did,” admitted Kylo.  He thought of Hux and tried to present the image of him the soldier had left him with.  His brokenness and the uncertainty of his recovery.  His piety that had fallen away so he could have faith and hope again.  His tragedy without promise of catharsis.  The way he bore it all and still tried to smile and pray.  Hux had been beautiful.  He had been innocent, and Kylo, ever the libertine, had corrupted him, but there was more to the story than that.  So much more.  Kylo continued, but as he spoke he slowly began to realize without witnessing the strange affair he had, none could properly understand it, “He was very devout, trying to listen to distant hymns.  He was so very far from home and was wanting for some warmth…” 

“Poor little soldier,” said de Bourbon, snapping open her fan to hide a grin behind it.  Kylo knew the story she had gathered for herself.  Lord Kylo Ren, rumoured sodomite, possible atheist, hot-tempered duelist, had found another innocent to corrupt.  It was a story that had been acted out before, with the role of the lover ever-changing.  She continued, regarding Kylo with amusement, “Did you warm him?  It would have been very cruel if you had left him standing in the snow.” 

Kylo almost regretted replying, “I did.  He was very sweet.  He did his best to be courteous, though he did not know how.” 

“If he was a lowborn infantryman, it’s unlikely he knew of manners at all,” noted Saxe. 

Kylo narrowed his eyes, recalling Hux’s soft ‘thank yous’ and asking pardon for missteps, both real and imagined.  He countered “And what do you know of him?  Nothing.  He’s a good, kind man who continues to fight for us past all hope of gaining anything for himself but an early grave!  If you would like to continue disparaging him, and his people, we can settle the matter with steel!” 

“It seems our Lord Ren cannot go three days without challenging someone to a duel.  If you’re so fond of your rapier, you simply ought to marry it,” someone called from across the room, laughing loudly and trying to stem the fight before it began. 

Kylo continued to glare, “His name was Hux, and he was as good as any man of France.  Perhaps better, if present company is any indication.” 

“You’re mad,” said Saxe, “It’s no wonder you found your Irishman pleasant company.” 

Kylo’s glare melted into a grin, “I suppose we do keep company with our own.  It explains why you’re co comfortable kissing asses.” 

After a consequent and seemingly inevitable duel between Ren and Saxe, word quickly spread that the Irish were not to be mentioned in Lord Ren’s presence. 

Kylo thought of Hux a little less in the weeks that followed.  Christmas came and passed.  Snow fell, melted, then fell again.  His locket had been made, and he kept the red hair inside it to keep it safe and preserved.  The sting of their parting had passed and Kylo spent much less time wondering where Hux had gone or what he was doing.  He had exhausted the possibilities.  From time to time he would look at a painting of Flanders or Germany and imagine Hux in his red coat standing there, knowing some peace as he looked out over the grassy plains as they rippled in the wind like waves. 

When spring came the paintings brought more pain than comfort.  Hux had no family to claim him if he fell.  If he was shot down, or his fragile little body was run through with a bayonet, he might not be brought to lay in the peace of a churchyard.  It was more probably he would lie unmarked, unremembered in some far off field with grass and wild flowers softly growing over him.  Kylo hated to think of his white marble body slowly decaying in the ground.  Perhaps he might be one of those faithful few, an incorruptible like Francois Xavier whose body remained untouched by time.  Kylo forced himself to believe the same would happen to Hux.  The thought of worms burrowing into his perfect cheek and reducing him to soil and dust was too much for him to bear. 

He followed the progress of the armies much more closely than he had before.  Financial reserves seemed to be draining, so he hoped that would bring the war to a quick close and Hux’s brigade would no longer be in danger of being sent on one of their infamous charges.  It could not last much longer now, not with all the heavy fighting on so many fronts.  It seemed every day that the war went on was a day when Hux would be in danger.  Kylo hoped he had convinced him that he was still a good man.  He hoped he had gone back to church, any church, and cleared his conscience.  He hoped he had confessed and purified himself, trusting that God would not damn him for that one night when he had been weak and needed so desperately to be touched.  Kylo did not want to think that trust in God had left Hux’s brilliant soul.  His faith had added to his charm, and Kylo could hardly imagine his Ceallachan without his cross and medals.  His devout soldier with the curious pagan name. 

Kylo’s spirits were not bolstered when summer came and brought sorry news with it.  Patrick Sarsfield, the mad leader of the Irish Brigade had been shot down at Landen.  He had managed to splutter as he expired, “Oh…that this were for Ireland.” 

Had Hux fallen alongside him the same way he had followed him at Limerick, Steinkirk and Ballineety?  Was his sweet, sad soldier no longer of this world?  If so, where was he now?  Where did he lie?  Kylo needed more than anything to know where he was.  If he was alive, he would likely have been in Belgium, mourning his leader, another precious piece of his homeland cruelly snatched away from him by his enemies.  If he was not…heaven surely, escorted through the gates by Saint Michael himself.  He was a good man.  He had only been weak once.  Just that once… 

But had he confessed?  Had he taken last rites?  Was there anyone left to intercede for this lost, lonely soul?  The memory of Hux was beginning to fade as well.  He remembered the shade of his hair, the lock he had left behind made sure of that, but it was becoming hard to remember the blue of his eyes…or were they green?  He tried to remember all his quick, blunt words as he struggled with his French.  They were fading away too, and Kylo spent many nights awake, wondering in quiet terror if Hux had said, “I don’t do this,” or “Please don’t do this.” 

He woke in a cold sweat one night when a nightmare convinced him it had been the latter.  He saw Hux burning, crying out for his torture to end as he pleaded that he was good.  Kylo stared up at the ceiling, the way Hux had after they had slept together, and he cried for his sake.  Had he damned him?  Had he been sent that precious little soul and damned it on a cruel, thoughtless whim?  Had he taken Hux’s chance for salvation, to be reunited with his family and his Grainne in heaven?  Had he taken more from him than any Englishman with a saber or flintlock ever could? 

He could not believe it, he refused to believe it.  Hux was wrong, he was not a kind man, but surely God, if he existed, was kinder.  Surely if he could see into the soldier’s heart he would see how good and faithful he had been.  All he had wanted was a moment of love.  Had Kylo killed him with that love?  He thought of Hux giving him his little treasures, the only things he had to give, how he had prayed for mercy.  When Kylo thought of that his fingers went numb and the blood in his veins froze.  Had Hux been asking for God’s mercy or Kylo’s?  Had Hux said that with the intention of pleading to be released? 

After his nightmare Kylo, for the first time in years, cracked open a bible.  He had one.  It seemed everyone did, though Catholics were not as fervent about reading and memorizing scripture as Protestants, who seemed obsessed with reading and interpreting it, whether they were equipped to do so or not.  Kylo often scorned them for thinking they might have the historical and theological knowledge to discern what saints had written so long ago, and now here he was, a mate in the same boat as blasphemous German scholars and their schismatic friends.  He had not opened it for years.  It had been a parting gift from his mother.  She had not wanted him to go to Versailles, calling it a den of corruption.  She had always hoped he might join his uncle and have a peaceful life in the church and be helped through his inclination towards men.  He’d always resented her for that.    

He scanned through the passages that he often heard quoted against him.  Stories of Sodom and Gomorrah and the Laws of Leviticus.  Reading them he thought the same as when they had been furiously snapped at him; they were unfair.  If a man without a wife lay with another man who was equally unbound and willing, who was harmed?  Why was it such a sin?  He had been told that it made a mockery of natural order, and perhaps it did, but even at that, who was hurt by it? 

Nobody.  Nobody was harmed.  It seemed by banning something that people were naturally inclined to pursue, more harm than good was done.  He could not understand why a god who was supposedly of peace and love would call for such a harsh punishment for one who was seeking just that.  Hux had not come to his bed with a mind for debauchery and vice.  He had come seeking love because he could not find it elsewhere.  Hux had done all of the things that were good.  He defended his country, he had a young wife or fiancée, he prayed before he ate, and he’d gotten nothing but cold and sadness for it.  Kylo sat in his room and thumbed through Leviticus, lightly scoffing at all the ridiculous ‘thou shall’ and ‘thou shall nots’.  How could God possibly damn someone who had given so much and only wanted a moment of love? 

Flipping through the book more thoroughly, he settled on Job, a tale of another man who had everything stolen from him by devils.  Job had been in anguish, but remained faithful, and in time all had been restored to him.  In Kylo’s mind it was a strange tale.  Did a new wife and children really replace the ones who had been struck down by death?  Property and livestock were one matter, but a family?  Did remarrying and baring more children really expunge the fact that a petty god had allowed the slaughter of a whole family for some wager with a rival he could easily quash?  It had never made any sense, and did not become understandable as he reread it.  He wondered, for a moment, what God would have done if Job had failed, if all the pain had caused him to lose faith and heart.  Would God have restored what was lost in spite of it?  Would God have ever done anything to comfort the man who had been put through so much anguish over a game he had played with the devil? 

If this was the God that was in charge of the universe and all its great and small beings, Kylo once again decided he did not like him.  He felt he would rather not believe in him. 

And yet, what if he did exist?  There were many things and people who existed in spite of Kylo’s dislike for them.  There were many laws that were in effect despite their unfairness.  The world was not an equal place, not from any perspective.  If there was a cruel God who had set these rules and Hux was bound by them, did his sad little soldier have any chance for salvation?  The New Testament hopefully and infuriatingly said nothing on the subject.  Not a word was said about the Sin of Sodom.  It left hope that God, taking on human flesh no longer had a mind to punish this sin, but also did nothing to indicate he had a mind to change his laws.  There was talk of love though, and perhaps that was what kept Hux faithful through his trial.  They were beautiful promises.  A world for the meek, a saviour who would find the lost, and above all salvation and love for all, purchased by precious blood. 

Was that what Hux hoped for when he prayed?  Salvation and forgiveness?  Kylo wondered if he had jeopardized it all.  Which God was it who held Hux’s soul in his scales?  The God who seemed so cruel in Kylo’s mind, or the one who spoke of an almost radical type of selfless love?  If it was the former, than Hux might be…

He should never have slept with him, Kylo decided.  He should have let Hux cry his fill, given him a night of support and safety and then let him go.  He never should have put his soul in any danger.  He could not escape from the thought of that poor soul burning on account of his lust.  If he had known what a good and loyal spirit he had he never would have laid a hand on him.  Kylo had thought he possessed sort of right to Hux, that he somehow deserved to have his night with the soldier, and now he may have condemned him.  He could have said no.  He should have let Hux go when he said his first ‘no’. 

The questions and uncertainty gnawed at him.  His uncle was an Abbe, but Kylo had never heeded him, never paid attention to his lessons.  He had scoffed at his piety, and more so the fact that his family wanted Kylo to follow his uncle into the Church in a life of hermitage and solitude, far from the men who caught his wandering eyes.  Now Kylo wished he had paid more attention to all those lectures and lessons.  If his sweet soldier, his Ceallachan, was rotting in the earth and burning in hell, was there any chance to save him? 

That summer he went to a church of his own volition, under no obligation to be there, for the first time in many long years. 

Kylo stole away to the back of the confessional, his footsteps echoing in the lofty building as he passed the angels and saints made of stone and glass, the Stations of the Cross, cold unfeeling monuments that had never given him any relief.  He entered the confessional and shut himself inside, plunged in anonymity and darkness as the priest waiting on the other side slid a wooden panel open.  Kylo could not see his face, and he supposed that was the point.  In this sacrament the priest was meant to represent Christ, the Lord, who Kylo supposed he was really speaking with, after a fashion.  The God he hoped would be Hux’s judge, as Kylo was almost certain he would be more fair and compassionate than the one of the Old Testament.  He recalled balking the notion of a man taking the place of Christ though.  The priest was just a man, not a god or his son.  There was no real comfort to be found in the man-sized wooden boxes.  Just more judgement.  It seemed everything in this Earthly Church always lead back to judgement.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned.  It has been many years since my last confession…” Kylo began. 

“Tell me your sins, my son,” said the priest, lazily, Kylo imagined, and why shouldn’t he?  He probably spent hours in this box listening to people rattle off a list of venial sins.  It was likely that he rarely remembered things he had overheard in confession. 

“I laid with a man…he was a good man,” said Kylo, who started and quickly amended himself, “He is a good man.” 

“Have you ended your relations with him?” asked the priest. 

“You don’t understand!” Kylo snapped, hissing quietly, “He…I was the one who tempted him.  He tried to leave, he tried to tell me he was a good Catholic, he even came at me with a knife.  But I…I would have let him go, I would have…but he seemed to change his mind and I…he was so beautiful that I…” 

Kylo trailed off, holding his head in his hands.  The priest repeated his question more urgently, “Have you ended your relations with him?  You have not pressed him since that time?” 

“He went to war.  He’s fighting in with our enemies on the Rhine,” said Kylo quietly, “And I…I don’t know if he lives or not.  Father…did I condemn him?  I’ve tried to read the scriptures but I don’t understand.  I don’t know if I’ve damned him or not.  I didn’t mean to, I loved him…god, I still love him.  I…I never told him how much…I loved him…I’m in love with him.”

“I fear that is between him and his God.  The matter is no longer in your hands,” replied the priest steadily, calmly, “You can pray for his salvation, that he will repent, but the condition of his soul is a question only God can answer.” 

“Father…did I damn him?” Kylo repeated, though he dreaded the answer, “If he is in hell, can he be saved?” 

When the priest did not answer immediately Kylo took out the handkerchief that Hux had given him with its little green flowers and carefully stitched monogram.  Kylo clutched it and hung his head, fighting back shameful, angry tears.  He had never been so disgusted with himself.  All he could think of was Hux brokenly quoting Latin scripture, trying to tell him how kind he had been the night after he sentenced his soul to burn. 

“He gave me this.  It was all he had to give, but he gave it to me.  I think a relative made it for him, but they were taken from him.  It must have been precious to him and he gave it to me.  He said I was a kind man after I had…” Kylo’s voice come out coarse and raw through his constricted throat.  He’s eyes flashed wildly as he looked at the screen that separated him from the priest.  He clutched the handkerchief tightly as he cried out, “He was good!  He doesn’t deserve this!  He had a moment of crisis and I used him!” 

“These walls are not thick, my son,” warned the priest. 

“I don’t care!” snarled Kylo, “Please!  I can’t bear it!  Is he safe!?  Can he be helped!?” 

Kylo panted and coughed as his fit left him.  The priest gave him a moment to calm himself and Kylo took it gladly.  He needed to know.  If there was hope, a single shred of hope he would take it, but he needed to know. 

“I cannot say where he is if I do not know the state of his conscience,” said the priest slowly, trying to be comforting, “If he has sincerely repented he will be forgiven.  If he died without taking the sacraments, but was truly repentant for what he had done, he may be in purgatory.  He will have a chance to purify himself before he joins the heavenly hosts.” 

“So he won’t burn?” Kylo begged, “Hux won’t burn?” 

“Perhaps you can better answer that question.  Was he among the faithful?” asked the priest. 

Kylo recalled him crying out and clutching the cross and medal to his forehead as he pressed the handkerchief to his lips, “He was…” 

“If it will ease your conscience and your mind, you can pray for him.  You can have a mass said for his soul,” offered the priest. 

“I don’t know how to pray for that…” said Kylo, drying his eyes carefully with the rough lace, “I know the Ave and Pater, but I can’t remember the rest of the Rosary…I don’t know how to pray for a soul in purgatory.” 

“Then as penance, you will learn, and you will say it for him,” said the priest, “As to souls in purgatory, they are under the protection of Our Lady and Saint Michael.” 

Kylo stiffened.  “Saint Michael protects him?” 

“It is he who weighs the souls of the departed, and it is he who bears them to God when they enter into heaven,” explained the priest. 

Kylo choked as he bit back tears, “He was a soldier…he had a medal around his neck…it was worn out from being held and touched…” 

Kylo raised his head and looked at the screen, only seeing the outline of the priest in the shadows on the other side, “I want to have a mass said for him.  As many as it takes.  I want to save him.  More than anything I _need_ to know he can be saved.  He was so good and pious.  I don’t know how well I believe, or if I do at all but him…he believed so strongly.” 

“What was his name?” asked the priest. 

“He went by Ceallachan,” said Kylo shakily.  He took a breath before answering, “His name was Ceallach Michael Hux.  He was a soldier in the Irish Brigade.  He was a good man.” 

“We can arrange for his name to be added to the intentions,” assured the priest, “Do you have anything else to confess?” 

“Nothing so grave as this…” said Kylo. 

“Then when you are ready, you may say the Act of Contrition,” said the priest. 

Kylo said it as best as he could remember it, choking slightly as he recited the passage about dreading the loss of heaven and the pains of hell.  But he finished, he confessed and he received his penance.  He would pray for the little soul he had almost ruined.  He would count his beads and mumble prayers until his fingers and lips were raw.  He would have mass after mass said until Saint Michael tired of hearing the soldier’s name.  He would pray as nobody had prayed before, make himself impossible for God, if he were listening, to ignore.  He wanted to save Hux’s soul.  He needed to.  He had lost everything.  Kylo would not forgive himself if he had lost his soul as well. 

He stayed to his promise, though the number of prayers he said eventually whittled down as he settled into a rhythm.  At first he had devoted every spare moment to prayer, but as life continued around him he set himself into a routine.  In the morning before he went out he would pray to Saint Michael to protect his sad, sweet soldier.  In the evenings he would say a Rosary for him, sometimes drifting off to sleep with the beads in his hand and ‘pray for us sinners,’ on his lips. 

The way he saw it, what did he have to lose?  If God was cruel and vindictive there would be nothing Kylo could say that might sway him, but God was loving and forgiving than Masses and prayers might move him.  And if God did not exist at all, then whether he said the words as he breathed did no harm to anyone.  And if Hux was alive or in heaven, he too might be praying.  Though the words might be fruitless, somewhere they might have been praying together, perhaps for each other.  Would Hux spare a prayer for him?  Kylo often thought of him while he was failing to pay attention during Mass, imagining Hux on his knees with his hand placed expectantly on his forehead, waiting for Kylo so they might cross themselves together. 

After his guilt subsided, the thought of pleasing Hux became his reason for praying.  If the Irishman was with him, if he had any way of knowing what Kylo had been occupying his time with since their parting, Kylo knew this would please him.  Knowing there was someone who cared enough to pray for his dear little soul.  It was the only selfless thing Kylo could do for him, and Hux might never know of it.  Kylo liked to think he knew though, and in this small way there was help and togetherness between them.  A small mercy placed upon them. 

Summer turned to fall.  He counted the weeks by the masses he went to, still not quite able to care for the gospels but listening carefully to ensure Hux’s name was mentioned in the intentions.  The deacon butchered it terribly the first time he had read it.  Kylo had approached him after mass, more aggressively than he had intended, and instructed him on how to say the name properly.  Ceallach Michael Hux.  It was not such a difficult thing to say compared to all the Greek, Latin and Hebrew. 

As the air cooled, sometimes he would ask Dameron to take him close to Saint Germain.  The soldiers would all return in a few months, neither side being able to continue their fighting in harsh winter conditions.  He would walk by the place he had first spotted Hux and wait under that lamppost, wondering if perhaps he might come back to that place.  Would it be a comfort to him, or would the shame of the memory and the desperate act he had taken be enough to drive him away from it forever?  Kylo tried to remember how he had looked that night, sad and serene as he listened to the distant choir.  The memory was dying, slowly and surely despite Kylo’s attempts to cling to it.  Kylo could not quite remember how tall Hux was, the number of buttons on his galoshes or freckles on his arms.  He could not recall the precise shade of his eyes or the lips that had first caught his attention.  All he was able to remember was his hair, streaked with snow as he stood out in the cold. 

“He wouldn’t be back by now,” said Dameron carefully on the third occasion Kylo had asked to be taken to that spot.  The coachman had tried to be reassuring, “But I know people.  I can ask them to let me know when the armies return.  I can ask them to look for him.  We know his name and what he looks like.  Someone has to have heard something.” 

Kylo shook his head, “He might not want to see me.  I just…I want to be able to remember him.  I can’t remember his face…” 

He counted beads, masses and long rides to Saint Germain as winter finally returned.  The armies had to have come back by now, and perhaps the war would not continue for much longer now.  Perhaps Hux would return, relieved to have survived another year of fighting for a cause that was not his own, or perhaps he slept peacefully in some far off field with softly falling snow and the promise of flowers in spring.  Would he remember him?  Would he come back to the city and think of the man who he had laid beside for a few hours and had given his small tokens to?  Was he in heaven or purgatory listening to all of his desperate prayers?  Had he forgiven him for putting his soul in such danger? 

Kylo walked past the spot.  It was one full year since that day.  The snow fell silently again and he waited.  Just for a few hours.  It was foolish, but he thought perhaps Hux might return, that some invisible force might compel him to revisit that spot.  Kylo stayed in the shadows watching carefully as the minutes stretched into long hours of agonized waiting.  It was cold, and the chilly air nipped at his nose and ears despite the hat he wore.  He recalled how Hux had been bareheaded and how strange he thought the sight had been.  He remembered his gloveless hands and frozen fingers.  The way he had tearfully tried to reciprocate his kisses. 

He felt tired, like he might fall asleep.  It was a very foolish thing to fall asleep out in the cold and Kylo doubted Dameron would be able to find him before he froze to death or sickness.  Just a few more minutes, a few minutes more and-

There was a soldier in a red and green jacket under the lamppost. 

Kylo’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened.  He could not make out his face, it was obscured in the shadows by a black tri-corner hat.  He had long red hair, tied up with a band by his nape, obscuring the scapular that might have been resting there.  He stopped, watching jets of vapour pour from his lips into the frosty air and caused the snow to flurry around it.  Was it him?  Kylo could not be sure.  It had been so long.  He was not nearly close enough to judge. 

A young woman with a large belly stepped into the light beside him. 

The soldier’s head was tilted down towards her and he pulled off his gloves to touch his hands to her stomach.  They exchanged words, but they were too far off for Kylo to hear.  He could not tell if they spoke French, Irish, English or anything else.  The soldier leaned down and kissed her lightly. 

Kylo wanted to scream out, to call to him, but checked himself.  If it was Hux, than this must have been his lover- no, Hux would have married her certainly.  If this was truly Hux, than the woman who stood with him was his wife.  If she was his wife than he would not want her to see Kylo.  No man would want to introduce his wife to a former lover, especially not when that lover was a man. 

And if it was not Hux, Kylo was certain that his heart might break. 

He lived, Kylo convinced himself, he was happy.  That was what he had prayed for, was it not?  That he might know rest and some small happiness.  This man who might be, had to be Hux, was going to have a small family that would need his affection and devotion.  They would need a man with a heart great enough to give away what little he had, devout enough to raise them to the light, and brave enough to fight even though it was no longer for his own cause. 

Kylo imagined he saw the dull blue of a scarf underneath his green collar as the soldier kissed his pregnant wife again.  He imagined he saw the cords of a scapular and a cross.  He needed so desperately for them to be there.  He wanted this soldier to be his Hux, alive and well.  The choir was practicing its hymns again, chorusing ‘venite adoremus,’ as the couple in the light held each other and stopped to listen. 

Kylo clutched the little lace handkerchief to his eyes.  He had nearly ruined the soldier once.  He would not risk it again.  He recalled Hux’s words to him as he allowed them to remain in peace in the light where they belonged.  The only words he could still recall precisely.  Those beautiful words spoken from his lips with his broken French. 

“You are kind, Seigneur.”


End file.
